Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

21

The great hall had been accumulating decorations for days now, but tonight, it was a chamber transformed.

Garlands lined the rails of the upper galleries, and spanned the mantelpieces of the huge, roaring fireplaces; hung in swags from the ends of the trestles, wound round the ceiling support columns, and, overhead, fanned out from the chandeliers in great loops, fixed cunningly on the ceiling somewhere, all of it decorated with silver ornaments, and bundles of cinnamon, and dried fruits, and cloves, so that the hall was redolent with the smell of hot cider. The cressets burned along the walls, and candles blazed in ever candelabra, the heat of them immediately stifling. A space had been made at the very center of the hall for a massive fir tree fixed on a stand. Crates of silver ornaments waited beside it. Two smaller trees, already dressed with silver snowflakes and icicles, stood behind the high table, set up on the dais usually occupied by the throne. The table itself was draped in crimson stitched with silver embroidery, and wax dripped down the fat silver candlesticks to puddle on the cloth.

“It’s beautiful,” Tessa whispered, arm tightening in Oliver’s.

“It is,” he agreed, but he couldn’t focus on the splendor of it, because they stood now at the base of the grand staircase, and eyes were sweeping toward them.

Talk and laughter slowly died away; more and more heads turned.

Oliver breathed shallowly through his mouth.

Bjorn raised his voice so that it boomed through the hall. “His Majesty King Erik Frodeson! His sister, Lady Revna Frodesdottr! The Princes Leif and Rune Torstanson! The Lady Tessa Drake of Drakewell, and Mr. Oliver Meacham, of Drakewell!”

Erik strode across the floor, headed for the high table. Behind him, Leif escorted his mother, and then Rune followed; Oliver, his pulse pattering rapidly in his ears like raindrops, escorted Tessa forward in their wake, Magnus and Lars bringing up the rear.

He tried not to listen, really he did, but snatches of conversation bled through the general curious murmur.

“…to marry the prince…”

“…unusual color hair…”

“…bastard?”

“…beads…”

Then, more pointed, a woman’s voice: “Look at his beads.”

“…braided up like someone’s beloved!”

“Is he courting her ladyship?”

“…surely not a foreigner…”

“…house colors…”

“Look there, on his sleeve – Frodeson.”

“…king’s bedding a Southern bastard…”

Tessa’s hand tightened on Oliver’s arm. “Ollie.”

“It’s fine,” he whispered, though his throat was dry, and nervous sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. “Just gossip, right?”

He stared over Leif’s shoulder at the back of Erik’s head, his hair feathered amongst the black fur of his cloak. What in gods’ names did you braid into my hair? he wanted to know.

The thing was: he did know. Not specifically, maybe, but he knew the ornaments in his hair marked him, in some way, as bearing the king’s special interest and affection. It was only that it had seemed thrilling upstairs, away from prying eyes, and now seemed like he wore tiny archery targets behind his ears.

It seemed to take forever to reach the high table, but, finally, Oliver was pulling out a chair for Tessa, and sitting down in his own. It was worse, somehow, because though he could no longer hear what was being said, he could see all the eyes fixed on him; could watch people lean together to whisper to one another, staring at him all the while.

Leif sat down on his other side. “Ignore them,” he said, quietly. “It’s only talk. Don’t let it get to you.”

Oliver swallowed with difficulty before he could answer. “Easier said than done.” A darted glance proved the prince was looking down on the feast goers with a mildly pleasant expression, one practiced and befitting a prince. “What exactly are these bobs in my hair saying to them?”

Leif flicked a sideways grin. “They’re lover’s beads,” he whispered.

“Oh. Well. That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought everyone assumed I was fucking the king,” he whispered back.

Leif snorted, and covered his widening grin with his knuckles. “The night’s still young. Unless…” He lifted a brow. “You don’t want to be fucking the king?”

“You,” Oliver said, “are a brat. Aeretoll is doomed.”

Leif chuckled.

Erik was two seats away, his sister between him and Tessa, but Oliver didn’t dare glance toward him, now, afraid it would lead to even more speculation from the crowd below.

He scanned their faces, not lingering on any one for too long, not making eye contact. He had the impression of fine, gleaming furs, rich velvets and wools, intricate embroidery, and braids, so many braids in so many styles, studded with beads and gems, though none looked so grand as Erik.

He was biased, though.

Out amongst the feast goers, a small hand shot up, and started waving madly. It was little Bo, his wild red hair tamed by two short braids, freckles bright on a flushed face. He grinned, wide and gap-toothed, and waved some more, so hard that the woman beside him – it must have been his mother – took hold of his tunic and tried to pull him back down.

There was at least one person who didn’t care about Oliver’s hair or his relationship with the king.

He smiled, and waved back. Whatever happened tonight, he did have friends here in Aeretoll, most of whom sat with him at this table. And in that respect, gossip or no, he had more than he’d ever thought possible.

~*~

Feast was not a figurative term, in this instance. Wine and ale was poured into pewter cups, and the serving men and women brought out the courses. First was a hearty soup full of sausage, leeks, and greens, warm and heavily seasoned. After was fish, pan-fried and served with wedges of lemon. Next came individual roasted quails stuffed with root vegetables and herbs, their skins dark and crispy with butter. Then savory potato pies. Oliver could manage only a few bites of each, and knew Tessa did the same – for his own part, out of nerves.

Great slabs of pink, bloody beef tenderloin were being served when the grand doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, admitting a gust of cold wind that bent the candle flames double, and a swirl of snow.

A collective gasp went up amongst the diners. Guards moved forward along the edges of the room, heading for the small knot of newcomers who stalked in shaking off clumps of snow, cheeks pink from the cold.

Leif’s cup landed on the table with a solid thump. Before Oliver could ask who had arrived, Leif said, “Ragnar,” in a tone that was both eager and cautious.

“Who?” Oliver asked.

“The leader of the Úlfheðnar. Our cousin.”

There were seven of them, all men, grouped three and three so they flanked their leader, walking into the hall like a spearpoint.

Guards heaved the massive doors closed again; the candles guttered, and then settled. The light swelled again, and Ragnar swept around the big fir tree and into full view.

It was the eyes Oliver noticed first: the same clear, shocking blue as Erik’s. Even without being told, he could have noted the familiar resemblance: the stern brow, the blade-straight nose, the regal bearing.

But where Erik’s mouth had been a flat line of contempt on Oliver’s first day here, Ragnar’s was curved into a boyish, overeager smirk. He was golden-haired, like Leif, his hair secured in a dozen small braids along his temples and the crown of his head, left loose in the back, so it looked like a windswept lion’s mane. Rather than beads and jewels, there were bones strung through it, and around his neck: a thick, intricate choker of old, dirty ivory that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He wore wolf fur of a dozen different colors over worn, serviceable leathers. A wide belt set with more bones, and heavy, fur-wrapped boots to his knees. He carried a sword on his hip, and a bow and quiver on his back; a horn hung from his belt, and his hands, as he spread his arms upon approach, bore fingerless leather gloves backed with bone spikes like ivory knuckle-dusters.

“Cousin!” he greeted, heavily-accented voice booming through the hall, undercut with suppressed laughter. “You’ve saved the best course for me, I see.”

One of his men paused as they approached the table, leaned over a young lord’s shoulder, and snatched the meat up off his plate to the sound of a spluttered protest. He ate it with his hands, heedless of the blood and juice that ran down his wrist.

A lord’s daughter with flaxen hair turned around on her bench and gaped in fascination, until one of the other Úlfheðnar reached to chuck her under the chin with a wink. The girl’s father grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of reach, scowling.

Upon first arrival, Oliver had thought all these Aeretolleans to be barbarians – he could see now how very wrong he’d been, with wolf-shirts prowling toward the dais like wild things who’d forced their way indoors.

They came to a halt at the foot of the stairs, and came no further. Made no move to bow or offer any sign of deference.

Ragnar propped his hands on his hips and tipped his head back to look up at his cousin, smirking. “You look good, Erik. Though there’s more silver in your hair since I saw you last.”

Slowly, with a dignity that made him seem taller and more imposing than ever, Erik pushed back his chair and stood. Walked down the length of the high table – Oliver felt the brush of his cloak against the back of his neck as he passed – and around it; down the shallow steps until he stood on even footing with his cousin. Oliver took a personal satisfaction in the knowledge that Erik was a little bit taller.

Erik said, “Ragnar,” and dipped his head in greeting. “I should have known you’d show up if I put out the bloody raw meat. I hope you’ve developed a taste for wine, because I don’t keep that rotgut you swill save for scouring the cooking pots.”

Silence a moment, save the creak of benches and the snap of candle wicks burning down. Then Ragnar’s face creased with mirth and he burst out laughing. Bent double with it, clutching at his stomach.

Erik grinned, but Oliver could see that it didn’t reach his eyes.

Ragnar straightened and pulled his cousin into a crushing hug, slapping at his back. When he pushed back, he gripped Erik’s elbows – Erik’s hands white where he gripped him in return – and said, “You fucking high and mighty twat. Where’s the ale? Have one of your good little doggies fetch me a plate.”

Oliver glanced toward Revna, and saw her frowning.

~*~

A plate of baked, sugared apples landed before Revna, still steaming from the oven, smelling heavily of cinnamon. She didn’t reach for her spoon, her gaze fixed instead on their newest arrival.

To her right, Birger said, “I’d hoped he wouldn’t come.”

“When have you ever known Ragnar to cooperate with the hopes of others?”

He sighed.

Ragnar and his men had commandeered one end of a trestle, displacing the diners sitting there by their presence alone. Cups, plates, and embroidered hemlines had been picked up and swept off, and a pair of nervous kitchen maids had set down platters heaped with meat, gravy, and fat slices of potato pie. The ale mugs had been refilled several times, now, and the men were laughing uproariously over something, bits of food caught in their beards, utensils forgone in favor of dirty fingers that were then licked clean of grease.

As she watched, Ragnar glanced up, caught her gaze, and saluted her with his mug.

Revna didn’t smile in return.

A glance farther down the table proved that Erik was deep in quiet conversation with Bjorn, though if he was worried about Ragnar’s presence, he didn’t show it. Erik could play cool when he needed to, but he’d always been less worried about their cousin than Revna thought he should be.

The dessert plates were cleared.

“I suppose it’s time, then, my lady,” Birger said.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Revna dropped her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back. “Tessa.”

The girl turned to her. “Is it time?”

“Yes, lamb, come along.”

Tessa had said little, and eaten less. She nodded, now, visibly steeling herself as if she were going into battle. She looked lovely, as ever, her natural beauty brought out by the soft blue of her high-necked gown, set off by the wolfskin that was a gift from Leif. Her auburn hair had been braided into a tidy crown atop her head, struck through with silver pins set with sapphire butterflies. Revna had loaned her a ring, a fat sapphire on a narrow silver band, and it winked and danced when she gripped the edge of the table with trembling fingers and stood to join Revna.

Revna drew the girl’s arm through her own and patted it as they walked – careful not to trip on their own long skirts – down the length of the table and around to descend the dais. “Don’t worry,” Revna whispered to her. “You look beautiful, and you’ll do wonderfully. Everyone is curious, but no one here has any hostility toward you.” Except, perhaps, for the maidens who’d wanted to marry Leif, but Revna wasn’t going to mention them.

“I wish I wasn’t so nervous,” Tessa confessed.

“Nonsense, it’s only natural.”

“I want to make a good impression.”

“You already have. If someone has a problem with you, it’s their own fault, and nothing you’ve done. Here, now, let’s stand.” They’d arrived at the massive fir, and drawn quite a few anticipatory glances at this point.

Revna raised her voice, the battlefield projection trick that her brother did so well, and which she’d learned from him at a young age. “If I can have everyone’s attention for a moment? Thank you.

“Welcome. Welcome, everyone. We hope you have feasted, and feasted well, because now it’s time to ask for the gods’ favor!”

A cheer went up. Everyone stood, ready to come forward. But holding back, waiting for their lady to give the nod, letting her choose the first worshipper.

Revna patted Tessa’s arm, and then released it. “Go on, then.”

Tessa took a huge breath, and then stepped forward, head held high, even if her shoulders were stiff beneath her mantle. She was a graceful girl, and no less so now, as she bent to select an ornament from the crate and approached the tree, fingertips smoothing over the silver piece she’d chosen. Revna had expected her to pick one of the finely-wrought reindeer, with proud antlers, and prouder carriage, inscribed with runes wishing for peace and prosperity throughout the land; a prayer for a strong Aeretoll, and a happy, prosperous people.

But instead she’d chosen a wolf: its head ducked, its legs caught mid-stride, cunning and fearsome. Its prayer asked for bravery, and boldness; for the chance to chase after what one wanted most. A selfish prayer, some thought, chosen often by warriors wishing for glory in battle, or titles pinned to their breasts. But Revna didn’t think so; she thought it was a prayer for a strength of spirit; a prayer for the willfulness to do what was needed, what was wanted.

Tessa took a long moment selecting the perfect branch, then hung the ornament and stepped back, hands folded demurely before her, gazing up at the little silver wolf as the candlelight flickered against its etched surface.

It was wolves, after all, who’d set upon the girl on her first ride through the forest; driven her up a tree in the tooth-chattering cold, frightening her out of her mind.

And it was the wolf that Revna had always associated with her younger son. Leif was her beast of burden, her dutiful heir – but Rune was the wild thing, head thrown back to the sky, eyes alive with starlight.

Tessa would do her duty, same as Leif, but hearts went where they willed.

Revna turned to glance over her shoulder, wanting to see the way her two sons gazed at the girl, to see if she could read in their eyes what they would not say with words.

But her gaze was caught – and arrested – by another’s.

Revna could not recall her eldest brother, Herleif, save in the vaguest terms. An impression of a grin, of a hand gently cupping the top of her head in careful affection.

Arne she remembered better, but he’d been heir by that point, and too old to be her friend, too focused on the future, and on battle, and on living up to Father’s expectations.

It was Erik she’d tagged along after, wanting to get her hands dirty, and play boy games. For all that he’d probably resented her presence, he’d been patient with her, a leader even then, though he’d never expected to lead.

Of his two closest companions, Torstan had been the golden god with the glittering smile and the sly looks. Bjorn had been the stolid, steadfast right hand. Always agreeing with Erik, always ready to jump in front of him to take the first blow when a friendly sparring match turned to a skirmish. Father had always joked that when his mother named him for a bear, he’d been bound to become one. In a world of large, strong men, he’d been larger and stronger. He carried a sword that a Southern lord wouldn’t have been able to lift, much less wield. With his thick, dark hair, and his massive hands, his booming laughs, he’d grown into his name admirably.

But Revna thought it wasn’t always a fair assessment. For all that he was huge and fearsome in battle, he wasn’t brutish. Wasn’t cruel. He was, despite all outward appearances, quite soft-hearted.

She hadn’t begun to suspect that he might be in love with her until after she was married and expecting Leif.

And then, after Torstan died, when the boys were only young, she’d asked herself an ugly, terrible question: did I pick the wrong man? If she’d married Bjorn instead, she wouldn’t be a widow. The guilt and revulsion such a thought had inspired in her lingered still, though fainter.

And tonight, Bjorn was looking at her.

His hair had been tamed with a few slightly-crooked braids, capped with beads of duty, loyalty, friendship: gifts from Erik some years ago. He’d trimmed his beard up short, so the strong line of his neck showed, and his face, though never as fine-featured as Erik or Torstan, held a blunt appeal of its own: his straight brows, and his serious dark eyes, and the unexpected softness of his mouth. A nose that had been broken more than once, and a gaze full of intensity, as he watched her.

Revna felt a tolling shiver, deep inside; a response. She turned and put her back to him, clapped her hands, and called the others forward to decorate the tree with their prayers.

~*~

Aeretoll and Aquitainia worshipped the same gods, though some of the names were different, and a few of the attributed powers. Down South, it was more of a formality, a bit of rote gesturing at certain holidays, and pleas for mercy when men lay dying. Oliver had never been religious – he’d never seen how prayer might improve his situation – and so when Tessa pressed a small, silver fox into his hands and told him he ought to say a prayer before hanging it, he hesitated.

A fox, he noted, recalling Lord Askr’s words from earlier. Tessa hadn’t known about that, but the irony struck him all the same; left him feeling a bit manic, though maybe that was just the wine he’d drunk to keep his hands from shaking.

He smoothed his thumb across the runes etched in the animal’s side. “Pray for what?”

“For whatever you want,” Tessa said. “For luck. That was why” – a sly smile totally out of character touched her mouth, lit up her eyes – “I chose the fox for you. I thought you might be feeling lucky tonight.”

“Tessa Louise,” he chastised, face heating, and she giggled. “That’s highly inappropriate for a young lady such as yourself.”

Still giggling, she reached to touch one of the braids behind his ear, the beads clacking together. “These are lovely.”

“Yes,” he said, dryly. “Aren’t they?”

She actually winked at him.

“Someone around here has been a terrible influence on you.”

She kissed his cheek. “Go and hang your prayer.”

He sighed, and rolled his eyes, but he did step up to the tree, as instructed. The lords, ladies, and children all milled around it, hanging their own ornaments, murmuring quiet prayers or chatting excitedly with one another. He managed to slip between a pair of ladies to find himself a bit of branch space, and there he hesitated, too aware of their gazes landing on either side of his face. On his beads, probably.

He had no idea what to pray for. Tessa wasn’t wrong in assuming that he did, at this point, want a little luck with a certain king. If the moment alone in the solar, Erik’s dexterous fingers braiding his hair – Erik’s breath warm in his ear, his teeth sharp and promising – was any indication, Oliver was more than welcome in the royal bed tonight.

But that felt like a wish to be made with crossed fingers – not something to be prayed for. Prayer shouldn’t get muddled up with sex, he thought.

“Ooh,” a voice said beside him, and he braced himself. “You’re the Southern boy. Mr. Meacham, right?”

He turned his head to find a woman with intricate, silver braided hair and a kind, weathered face studying him with open curiosity. “That’s me. Oliver Meacham, my lady.”

She grinned. “Lady Helga, of Silfr Hall. My lord husband presides over all the kingdom’s silver mines.”

“Ah,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

She reached up, just as Tessa had, and touched one of his beads, set it to clacking against its fellows. “All the silver for the pretty hair bobbles comes from our mines,” she said, proud, and, he thought, with a knowing twinkle in her pale eyes. “These are a lovely bit of work, here.”

He felt a hand on the other side of his head, tugging less gently at the beads there. “A bold gift, if you ask me,” a less friendly female voice said.

He turned toward it and found a younger, flaxen-haired woman with a throat heaped with emeralds on silver strands, winking and sparking as each breath heaved her tremendous bosom. She was giving him a pointed look. “Revna’s sure not wasting any time, is she? Already putting lover’s knots in your hair. Bit young for her, aren’t you?”

Shit. “Oh, I’m not – Lady Revna and I aren’t–”

“Really, Alfhild, you can’t say that sort of thing,” the first woman – Helga – said. “It isn’t done.”

“I’m only curious,” Alfhild said, scowling in a way that was certainly not curious, but hostile. “I’d like to know if it’s to be a double wedding, Leif and his mother both.”

“Ladies, I assure you, I’m not romantically involved with Lady Revna. Not at all.”

“No, I don’t think he is,” a new, masculine voice said.

When Oliver glanced back toward Helga, he found Ragnar, lord of the Úlfheðnar, standing just behind her. He was grinning, gaze fixed on Oliver, and Oliver’s blood ran cold. That smile was a threat; he could feel it.

Lady Helga glanced over her shoulder, noted him, and gave ground immediately, fear plain on her face.

Ragnar stepped into the place she’d vacated, close enough for Oliver to smell the oily, unwashed ripeness of him. The furs he wore were not merely for show, but all that kept him warm in his world of ice, and snow, and few creature comforts.

He looked down at Oliver with a chuckle, and one large, unclean hand lifted to touch the beads, the same as the women had; only his fingers closed tight, and he pulled hard enough that Oliver bit back a wince at the prickling pain in his scalp.

“These are a gift from my cousin,” he said, “but not from Revna, I don’t think. No, you’re much more Erik’s type.”

For a moment, Oliver could only stare, caught like a rabbit in a snare. Logically speaking, he was the foreigner, and the bastard, and he should give sway to any lord – even a barbarian one who’d just blown in on a snowstorm.

But stubborn instinct left him bristling inside. If he didn’t bow up his back and prove that he wasn’t one to be cowed, he would never have an ounce of respect from this clannish, barbarian warrior. He probably wouldn’t anyway, as unimpressive as he was, but he’d be damned if he allowed himself to be manhandled and grinned at like this.

Slowly, deliberately, Oliver lifted his hand, and forcibly removed Ragnar’s fingers from his braid. It didn’t matter that Ragnar let him do it, that he could have drug Oliver across the floor by his hair if he wanted to: it was the principle of the matter. This was not a man, he thought, who listened to much beyond physical force.

“Excuse me,” Oliver said in his firmest voice. “But that’s too forward of you.”

Ragnar gaped at him a moment, comically shocked. Then his grin stretched wide, and he gasped a laugh, and another, delighted. “Look at that. The pup has fangs.”

Oliver felt a warm presence at his back, and feared, immediately, that it was Erik, that a spectacle was about to be made. But it was Bjorn’s voice, to his shock, that said, “Aye, Ragnar, didn’t your father ever teach you anything about dogs? It’s the little ones that bite.”

Ragnar continued to laugh, but when his gaze lifted up and over Oliver’s shoulder, a guardedness entered it. There was a healthy respect there; an internal acknowledgement that Bjorn was a man capable of putting him on his ass in front of everyone.

“Bjorn,” he greeted. “Still licking boots, I see. Why don’t you quit my cousin and come north? You could earn some notoriety for yourself, up there. Found your own tribe.”

Oliver couldn’t see Bjorn’s grin, but he could hear the nasty edge to it when he said, “Now where would the challenge be in that?”

Ragnar’s smile became a grimace. “You always did like a challenge, didn’t you? Especially the ones you couldn’t win.” His smile returned, twice as malicious, and his gaze cut pointedly to the side.

Toward Revna, who joined them with a thunderous expression, blue eyes flashing. “Boys,” she said, even tone belying the glare she shot at Ragnar. “You’re blocking the tree for our guests.”

“I’m a guest,” Ragnar said, still grinning wickedly.

Revna’s cold look ought to have turned him to stone. “No. You’re family. Family doesn’t get special dispensation.”

He held up both empty hands with a low “ooh,” but moved off, chuckling under his breath.

Revna traded a look with Bjorn, her jaw firming, and then looked to Oliver. “A word of caution, lamb. You play too many word games with that one, and he’ll start swinging.”

“Yes.” Oliver suppressed a shiver. “I can see that.”

~*~

The tree gleamed and sparkled as the flickering candlelight caught on the hundreds of silver ornaments the feast guests had strung from the branches. The hall was warm – from the fires, and the number of bodies packed close, and the candle flames, and the free-flowing wine – but it wasn’t the cause of the warmth that had settled in Tessa’s cheeks. She was being watched.

In the crush of decorating the tree, Revna had introduced her to a number of the highborn ladies – those that hadn’t pushed boldly forward and introduced themselves. All had been smiling, all had exclaimed over her dress and her hair, and wished her well. There had been a few dark looks, a few upturned noses, but nothing like back at home, in Drakewell. To be honest, she preferred the outright snubs to the false smiles and compliments of high society in the South. If someone didn’t like her, she wanted to know about it, rather than try to parse each bit of flattery.

It was the daughters she worried about. The young ladies her own age, most of whom had come together in a loose knot on the other side of the room, whispering to one another and shooting assessing glances her way, some curious, most narrow and evaluating, a few outright hostile.

One, a statuesque blonde with hair braided into thick ropes, and a belt of silver circles around her waist, broke away from the group, pasted a beatific smile onto her face, and approached Leif where he stood near Birger. She touched his arm, and said something that made him smile down at her. Tessa couldn’t miss the sly, mocking glance the girl slid her way before she refocused her attention on Leif, head tossed back in laughter at something he’d said.

“That’s Estrid,” Rune said, appearing at Tessa’s elbow. A glance proved that his lip was curled in distaste.

“She’s very pretty,” Tessa said.

Across the room, the blonde slid her hand higher up Leif’s arm, until she cupped his elbow familiarly.

Rune snorted. “She’s a witch.”

She whirled to face him, startled by the vehemence of his tone – and then of his face, when she saw his furrowed brow, and his frowning mouth. Always so jovial, his smile so quick and easy, he looked nearly as stern as his uncle, now.

He glanced down, saw her curious expression, and said, “My mother, having no daughters of her own, lets the young, noble ladies of other houses come to court sometimes. Usually in groups. They shadow her, learn from her, and get to attend all the official functions.

“Estrid started coming around when she and Leif were ten – they’re the same age. She glommed onto him right away – ten years old and already thinking about marriage. It wasn’t because she liked Leif, but because she wanted to be queen someday.”

“Can you really know that? Maybe she did – does care for him.”

Rune tilted his head and cocked a single brow. Come on. “She doesn’t. She’s completely mercenary, and she hated me, because I was always tagging along with Leif. She made a game of trying to get me to go away: she’d say the cruelest things she could think of to send me running.” He made a face.

Tessa glanced back toward Estrid – standing even closer to Leif and looking at Tessa over her shoulder, her smile close-lipped and triumphant. She had to admit that she recognized that look, had seen it on many a girl’s face at the Drakewell court.

It was all too easy to envision a young Rune, already determined and proud, but still a child who played with toys, and who was willing to climb into his mother’s lap, and who worshipped his big brother. Only five. The thought of being cruel to a child that age, even if she’d been young herself, fanned her unease about Estrid into full-fledged dislike.

“Don’t worry,” Rune said. “Leif is polite to her, because he’s polite to everyone, but he doesn’t care for her.”

When she glanced toward him again, she caught the flicker of a fleeting, wistful smile.

But then a true smile split his face; she felt a little swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach in response. “Ooh, look, it’s about to start.”

“What is?”

“The fighting.”

~*~

While the guests milled about the center of the room, the serving boys began to break down some of the trestles. A few whoops and glad shouts went up from the men.

“What’s happening?” Oliver asked, and then did a double-take when he realized it was no longer Bjorn standing at his side.

Erik sipped from a pewter mug, and nodded toward the activity: men were moving toward one another, talking and gesticulating, looking eager. Negotiating, it looked like. “It’s time for the fighting.”

For a moment, admiring his profile, and the intricacy of his braids, sapphires winking down the length of them, the word didn’t register. But then Oliver said, “I’m sorry. Fighting?”

“Only friendly sparring matches. Contests of strength, more like. Blunted or wooden swords, even, and after they embrace and share a drink together.” He slanted a coy look down at Oliver. “I suppose there’s dancing and jugglers at Drakewell parties.”

“Naturally. You great barbarian.”

Erik grinned and passed him the cup. It was wine – strong wine. A darker, drier red than what he’d had at dinner; Oliver took one sip and felt the heat of it all down his throat.

“You could make yourself a fool on that,” he said, passing it back.

Erik hummed. “Come sit down again. The combatants will want my blessing.”

“And mine as well, I should think,” Oliver joked, rolling his eyes.

But Erik said, “One day they will, most likely.”

They climbed the dais again, and resumed their seats – only, not quite. The boys and Bjorn had stayed below on the floor, at the edges of the crowd. Leif had a wooden practice sword lifted over his head, stretching out his toro in preparation for a match. Revna was already seated at the high table, in the seat that had been Oliver’s.

“Sit by Erik,” she said, breezily, lifting her wine cup and not meeting his eyes.

Oliver made a face, but complied. He supposed if people were already talking – if even Ragnar had noticed his beads – there was no sense pretending he was just any old guest.

Oliver was struck with the absurd thought, as he sat, that his father would be staring at him slack-jawed and gaping if he were here now. His worthless, sickly bastard son seated in pride of place beside a king – one who’d woven lover’s beads into his hair. He chuckled, before he could catch himself, and Erik sent him an inquiring look.

“Life is funny, that’s all,” he said.

Erik studied him a moment, and then smiled. “Yes. I suppose so.”

The large expanse of flagstone floor between the high table and the decorated fir stood empty, now. Two men stepped from the lines of spectators, wooden practice swords in their hands, and approached the dais. Bowed low, fists pressed to their chests.

“Your majesty,” they said in unison, and then straightened. They looked like brothers, with light brown hair, and green eyes, and similar builds: strong and a bit thick in the middle.

Erik acknowledged them with a deep, respectful nod, and the combatants broke apart and squared off from one another. Bjorn, acting as referee, gave the signal, and they engaged.

Erik leaned in close. “Absalon and Adils. Twins,” he explained in an undertone, below the crack of the wooden blades coming together. “They fight best with axes, so this is mostly a chance to practice under Bjorn’s gaze and improve their skill with swords.”

“Shore up your grip, lad,” Bjorn said. Adils shuffled his hands and was better braced for his brother’s next swing. “Good. Now, watch your feet.”

The match progressed as more of a lesson. It ended in a draw, with both brothers noticeably lighter on their feet by the end of it. They grinned as they wiped sweat-damp brows, and the audience clapped and cheered politely. The twins approached Bjorn to offer their thanks, clasping his brawny forearm in turns, then offered quick bows to Erik before melting back into the crowd.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Oliver said, much more relaxed than he had been to start.

“Just wait,” Erik said.

“Who’s next?” Bjorn called.

“I am,” a crisp voice rang out. A tall, clean-shaven, slender young man with white-blond hair gathered along the crown of his head in two narrow braids strode forward, unclasping his fur-topped cloak as he went so it fell to the floor dramatically, and he stepped away from it in layers of fitted gray wool and well-oiled brown leather. His only ornamentation was an engraved silver belt buckle, one that cinched his belt tight around a narrow waist. He walked with shoulders back, and head lifted at an arrogant angle, his steps dancer-light on the flags. He carried a sheathed short sword on his hip, and drew it, the sharpened steel rasping against the leather.

Rather than approach the dais, he called out, “Your majesty, I’ve challenged Ulf Gorsun, if he hasn’t scurried off yet in fear.”

A few chuckles from the audience.

A hulking young man with intricate designs shaved into the dark hair along his temples stepped forward, glowering. “You wish, princess.”

More chuckles.

The blond boy grinned, brandishing his sword. “Well, I am more adept at handling a blade than you. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Very well, Lord Náli,” Erik said, with a wave. “But you know the rules: put that away.”

With a theatrical sigh, the boy sheathed his sword, and accepted the blunted practice blade that Bjorn offered him. He gave it a few experimental swings, twirled the handle across his palm, frowning. No doubt it wasn’t nearly as fine as his own blade.

“Náli inherited Naus Keep from his father only six months ago. The new Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands,” Erik informed him. He sighed. “He’s going to be trouble, sooner rather than later.”

The other boy accepted a sword, but gripped it tight in one hand, rather than testing its heft and balance. Hulking though he was, Oliver could see his clumsiness straight off.

Lord Náli, on the other hand, slid into a ready stance, sword held at a showy angle, already grinning smugly to himself.

“Ready?” Bjorn asked, waiting for their nods. “Begin!”

Náli lit into the other boy with an explosive burst of swings. Ulf managed to get his own sword up and block him, but gave ground on every connection, backpedaling until the spectators were forced to fall back as well. The chime of steel-on-steel was over-loud in the hall, high though the ceilings were. Oliver fought not to flinch against its sharp ringing.

“Come on, Ulf,” Náli taunted. “Have you learned nothing since we were children?”

Ulf – already grimacing – bared his teeth in a strained snarl, absorbed the next blow with his blade, and then lunged forward. His swing was artless, and too-wide, but forceful enough that Náli shuffled back in a hurry to avoid it. Ulf’s momentum carried him forward, and he charged, swinging again.

Náli cursed and threw up a block.

Sword struck sword with a sound like a gong; it echoed off the stone, rippling back and back again.

Absorbing the shock of it had hurt, Oliver could see: Náli had his teeth bared, his arms shaking, feet braced wide apart. Oliver remembered all too well his day in the training yard, Erik bearing down on him; the way the impact had shot through bone and muscle and pulsed hot and painful in his joints. His teeth clenched in sympathy, no matter how cocky and deserving of a lesson the young lord was.

Beside him, Erik eased forward a fraction in his chair, elbow braced on the armrest, fingers curling slightly, gaze fixed on the match. You violent thing, Oliver thought, far too fondly.

In the center of the hall, Ulf pressed his advantage. Be bore down on his opponent, the swords screeching as they slid along one another. Náli, sweat gleaming on his temples and throat, arms beginning to shake beneath the onslaught, had little choice but to yield, or risk injury.

Or so Oliver thought.

A triumphant grin began to break across Ulf’s face –

Just as Náli ducked and spun, whirling away from their shoving match.

With nothing to push against, Ulf staggered forward, off-balance. Grinning now, Náli whacked him across the backside with the flat of his blade and sent the larger boy sprawling across the flagstones, much to the crowd’s startled amusement.

Ulf lay still a moment, winded, stunned.

Náli turned and bowed deeply to both sides of the room, his smile wicked and the toss of his hair triumphant.

“How in the world did he manage that?” Oliver asked, caught between impressed by the young lord’s feat, and repulsed by the way he’d made a fool of his opponent.

Erik’s mouth, when he checked, was set in a thin, grim line, plainly disapproving. “Náli is quick – he’s slippery. He’s young, but he’s never lost a match. He always manages to wriggle away before he comes to any harm. He isn’t the strongest fighter, as far as brute strength goes, but he’s the quickest, and the most precise.”

“Has he ever sparred with one of the boys.”

“No. He’s too clever for that.”

While Ulf heaved up to his feet, red-faced and glowering, clearly embarrassed, Náli strode up to the dais and offered Erik an exaggerated bow. “Your majesty.”

In a flat voice, Erik said, “Congratulations, Corpse Lord.”

The young lord flashed a wicked grin. “And to you, your majesty.” His gaze shifted pointedly to Oliver – and he winked. Before whirling with a flourish, pale hair fluttering, and striding back to join the crowd.

“Hmph,” Erik murmured.

“Who’s next?” Bjorn shouted.

The crowd parted, and it was one of Ragnar’s Úlfheðnar that stepped forward, bare-armed, his cloak removed so he wore only a cracked leather jerkin with tufts of thick wolf hair on the shoulders. He was young, his head shaved as Ragnar’s was, only a single, thick braid running down the center of his head and down his back. A nasty scar marked one eyebrow, like a jagged, pink lightning strike that traveled up to his scalp, and down to the corner of his mouth.

A hush fell, as the feast-goers waited to see who he would challenge.

“Bollocks,” Erik muttered.

The wolf-shirt halted in front of Leif. He lifted a callused hand and jabbed a finger toward the prince’s chest. “You, little heir. Come and fight me.”

Leif was, in fact, taller than him. And also regarding him with brows lifted in mild surprise. “I’ll gladly spar with you, Ormr, if you wish,” Leif said, graciously.

The clansman – Ormr – closed the last distance so he could stab Leif’s chest with his finger, then he turned and crossed to Bjorn to take up a blunted sword.

Leif’s bearing was tolerant and dignified as he shrugged off his cloak, passed it to his brother, and followed, but Oliver saw the eager spark in his gaze, and the flex of his fingers. He’d wanted a chance to prove himself – to his people, and no doubt to Tessa, too, who stood beside Rune, whispering something to him, expression worried.

Rune whispered back, smiling, gaze even more excited than his brother’s.

Ormr accepted his sword and sliced it savagely through the air, his grin dark as he turned to face Leif.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be a friendly match?” Oliver asked.

Erik’s hand had curled to a fist in the air, knuckles white. His brow was furrowed. “Because it isn’t.”

Leif took the sword Bjorn offered.

And Ormr rushed him, roaring.

“He wasn’t ready!” Oliver hissed, half-rising from his chair. The audacity! Fury and fear chased along his nerves, making his skin prickle.

Erik stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Leif can handle himself.”

And he did.

In a split second, he squared up his stance, lifted his sword in a two-handed grip, and met Ormr’s mad rush calmly, and effectively. He parried, side-stepped, and forced his opponent to rush past him.

Náli would have used the opportunity to strike Ormr in a vulnerable place, while his back was turned.

But Leif retreated, resumed his stance, and waited to meet his opponent again. An honorable move, especially in the midst of a feast-day sparring match in front of noble ladies and children.

But it was a move that seemed to anger Ormr. He engaged again – not a wild rush this time, but a proper clash. Leif lifted his blade and the steel chimed again, and again, and again. They traded strikes, and parries, and blocks, shifting back and forth across the floor, the crowd shrinking back when they got too close. The ringing of the blades was like the steady clang of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

Finally, Ormr offered an opening. Oliver noticed it – he gasped – the same moment that Leif did, in the instant when Ormr tried to move his blade to his other hand after a particularly hard block that must have left his wrist tingling.

Leif swung, angling his blade so the flat of it would make contact with Ormr’s arm. You should have disarmed him, Oliver thought. But Leif went for the contact, for a blow – drawing out the fight, making it more interesting, and exhibiting good sportsmanship, for his own part.

The strike didn’t land, though. Ormr dropped to a crouch and cracked his own blade into the side of Leif’s knee.

Leif fell. His eyes flew wide in shock as the joint gave way, but he managed to twist his upper body so he landed on his hip, one hand braced on the ground, the other still gripping his sword.

A collective gasp of shock went up among the guests.

Erik lunged forward, both hands gripping the arms of his chair, his whole frame tense and vibrating. A low growl rumbled from his throat.

Ormr, Oliver saw with a lurch, wasn’t going to give his opponent time to get back up. He drew back for a kick–

And a cup slammed into the side of his head.

Wine the color of blood sprayed in an arc after impact; it pattered down on the flags, and splashed Ormr’s face. He staggered back a step, bellowing, wiping furiously at his eyes with his free hand.

“Rune!”

That was Tessa.

And it was Rune who’d thrown the cup, who strode now into the middle of the match, teeth bared in a furious snarl. Unarmed, he stalked up to the still-struggling Ormr – Leif levered himself to his feet, saying, “Rune, no” – and punched him in the face.

Ormr shouted again, and fell back, rebounding off the arms of the spectators behind him. Two glaring men shoved him back into place: not hiding him, not letting him slip away, angry on behalf of their prince.

“You son of a whore!” Rune shouted. “You backwoods goat-fucker! Fight fair, or don’t–” He cut off when Leif’s hand twisted in the back of his tunic, and dragged him back from the now-glowering Ormr, who’d finally wiped the wine from his eyes, but who now massaged a growing lump on his jaw.

“Leave it, Rune,” Leif ordered, giving him a shake.

Rune tore out of his grip and spun to face him, incredulous. “He was going to kick you! He fights dirty, and–”

“And I can handle myself.” Leif was breathing hard from exertion, but his tone was otherwise calm.

“He cheated!”

“He fought cleverly,” Leif countered. “There’s no such thing as rules of engagement in the midst of a melee. You take the hits where you can find them, and you stay alive by any means necessary.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and offered him a smile. “Thank you for coming to my aid, brother,” he said, formally, “but I could handle myself.”

Rune huffed with annoyance.

Behind them, Ormr bared his teeth and took a step forward.

Erik stood, shoving his chair back noisily.

The same moment, Ragnar pushed through the crowd and took Ormr’s arm. His hand flexed so tight Oliver could see his knuckles whiten, but his tone was forcefully chipper when he said, “I don’t believe it: bested by a wine cup.”

Nervous titters from the guests.

Ormr turned his glare on his leader, and muttered something too low to hear.

Leif stepped around his brother and dipped his head a fraction in a show of respect. “Well-fought, Ormr. I shouldn’t want to meet you on the field.”

Ormr turned a nasty glare on him, refused to respond, then tugged loose from Ragnar and stormed off.

Ragnar lifted his head and addressed Erik. “What say you, cousin? Can we mark it down as pride and stupidity?”

Oliver snuck a glance at Erik and saw a flicker of surprise cross his face. He hadn’t expected Ragnar to want to diffuse the situation, Oliver guessed.

After a long moment – the audience watching with rapt attention – Erik nodded. “Very well.” He resumed his seat. “Bjorn.” He made a little motion for his captain to continue the matches.

The tension that had lay over the hall the past few minutes dispersed, and a fresh pair of good-natured combatants went forward to claim practice swords.

Oliver leaned over the arm of his chair toward a troubled-looking Erik. “What was all that about?” he asked.

Erik’s gaze tracked back and forth across the hall. Ormr was nowhere in sight. “The Úlfheðnar’s resentment of us is contradictory: they think us clan traitors for living, in their words, like Southerners. And yet, they think Ragnar and his line should be set to inherit the wealth of Aeretoll.” He turned his head, finally, to meet Oliver’s gaze, his own serious, troubled. “They reason that, since I’ve no sons, and no plans to beget any, why should my nephews be my heirs when Ragnar is older, wiser, and, to their minds, a superior warrior.”

Oliver said, “And they clearly don’t understand how lineage and inheritance work.”

A smile tweaked the corners of Erik’s mouth. “No. Ragnar does.” His gaze skated away, out across the crowd again. “He likes to challenge me – flex his muscles, so to speak. But he’s too fickle to want the responsibility of a whole nation. He blows in and out like a storm, with lots of thunder and dramatics, but then he’s gone again.” He frowned. “If only I can convince Rune of that.”

~*~

A serving boy set a fresh cup of wine down in front of Oliver, and though he probably shouldn’t have, he picked it up, and found it to be a light, crisp white. When he glanced toward Erik in inquiry, he was informed, a bit self-consciously, that it was a Veniscalli white, and Oliver remembered, with a fond flush, that Erik’s mother had been from Veniscall.

It was a good wine, the sort of thing he would have drunk at home, and it eased the last, lingering tension of watching Leif fight Ormr, so that Oliver watched the next few moments in contented silence beside the king, only realizing how late it was when a huge yawn overtook him.

“I think that’s enough for one night, lads,” Bjorn announced as the last two fighters handed over their swords.

There were some good-natured groans of disappointment, but many more yawns and nods of agreement.

The celebration was winding to a close.

Revna climbed the dais, her arm looped through Tessa’s, who looked a little tired, but pink-cheeked and happy, too.

“That was mostly a success, I’d say,” Revna said as they drew to a halt on the other side of the table.

Erik lifted a single brow at her. “Only mostly.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” She grinned, and then lifted a hand to stifle a yawn. “Goodness. We ladies are all retiring to the second floor solar for tea and gossip. I suppose you’ll be down here for the drinking games.”

“There’s going to be more drinking?” Oliver asked, faintly distressed.

“The men who wish to remain may do so,” Erik said. “But I’m going to bed.”

Revna’s look turned sly before it cut to Oliver. “Mmhm, I see.”

Erik’s gaze slid over, too, less sly, more inviting.

Oh.

Oliver set his cup down and hitched up straighter in his chair. “Tessa, if you’d rather go to bed, too, I’d be happy to escort you.” His pulse throbbed and quickened; a heat that had nothing to do with the wine he’d drunk crawled up his throat, and he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted her to refuse. It was one thing to dream of something and entirely another to get it. One thing for a spontaneous tryst to unfold in the baths, and another to walk calmy to bed side-by-side.

Tessa smiled at him. “Oh, no. I’ll take tea with the ladies.” She looked apprehensive, he thought, a little nervous, but her smile was genuine enough.

“If you’re sure…”

“Oliver,” Revna said. “Go to bed.”

“Right.”

A low, cut-off sound beside him might have been Erik chuckling.

“Goodnight, boys,” Revna said, as she and Tessa turned away and started down the dais. “Sleep tight! Don’t let the – well, you can let some things bite.”

Tessa let out a shocked giggle.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It makes sense, I suppose,” he said. “All you Northerners are more straightforward about everything else. Why not this?”

When he turned to face Erik again, the king was studying him with concern. In a low voice, he said, “Oliver, you really can go to bed – to your own bed – if that’s what you want. Or stay here drinking. Or go to the library, or–”

Oliver cut him off with a smile – a sudden, irrepressible one that warmed him all the way through. Gods, but the man was adorable.

“I very much do not want to go to bed alone,” he whispered. “If there’s a better offer on the table.”

Erik’s brow smoothed; a smile dawned, slow, mischievous, positively boyish. “I think that can be arranged.”

Footfalls sounded on the dais steps, and Oliver bit back another groan when he saw that it was Ragnar approaching.

He glanced between them, smirking. “I hate to interrupt–”

“What is it, Ragnar?” Erik asked.

“I want a word with you, if I can, before you retire.” He cocked his head and his expression went serious. “In private.”

Erik sighed, but nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Oliver with an apology in his eyes.

Oliver stood. “I’ll be off, then.” He offered a tight smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Ragnar.”

The smirk returned. “It could be, if this one fails to satisfy.” He jerked a thumb toward Erik.

Who scowled and waved his cousin back. “Go on. We’ll go to the dining room. Bjorn?”

The big man turned away from a conversation down on the floor, brows lifted in inquiry.

“See that Mr. Meacham returns safely to his rooms.”

Oliver didn’t sigh, and kept his face carefully neutral. But when Ragnar caught his gaze, the wolf-shirt winked at him.