Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

7

Tessa had known her entire life that she would marry, and marry a lord of some kind at that. She’d been thirteen before she’d finally started feeling a faint kindling of heat in her belly when she looked at a pretty boy. A flush in her cheeks, a fluttering in her chest, a sense of running out of air, and terrible nerves; she’d worked hard to break the habit of knotting her fingers together, though she’d fallen back into it only last night.

Her mother had talked about the need to make a smart match. But Father – Father: if she let him slip into her thoughts now, pain knifed through her, leaving her reeling and sick – had said he’d find her a good match, and the softness of his smile had told her that smart and good were very different things.

A year ago, the heir of Hope Hall, the trim and tidy, handsome, golden-haired Lord Reginald had accepted her favor at the May Day tourney; had bowed his bright head in thanks, his straight, confident smile leaving her insides like jelly. So much had changed in a year.

Everything had changed.

Lord Reginald was off to war, and here she was in Aeres, pacing beside a prince instead, as they walked through a quiet, snow-mantled garden filled only with the tittering of birds, and the sigh of the breeze in the dormant fruit tree branches.

Tessa had never loved Lord Reginald, not even from afar; for her, love seemed to require something beyond distant glimpses and vivid imaginings. Her friends had all professed their undying love to young lords they’d never met, but Tessa had only ever loved her family, and her favorite dog, and she thought there must be something wrong with her not to feel such aching tenderness as the other girls described.

It was only ever a physical warmth for her, pleasant, but fleeting, and not enough to build a life upon. She would marry when it was required of her, for her family’s sake, but she didn’t dare hope for love.

Admiration, though…

Lord Reginald’s most striking feature had been his gleaming golden hair, cropped in short curls in the Southern fashion.

Leif’s hair was gold, too – though not a single shade. Instead a bright spill of honey, and amber, and straw, and pure, spun gold, a rare ocher strand visible in the small braids he wore behind his ears. Silver beads and brilliant sapphires winked within its mass, decorating his braids; a heavy silver barrette held it back from his face, and the rest tumbled down across his shoulders.

Broad shoulders, made broader by leather and fur. He was much bigger than Reginald; she could see the way his arms bunched and flexed, testing his sleeves in a way that reminded her of the strong, bare arms of their blacksmith back home. He’d been young, their blacksmith, fresh from an apprenticeship, always with a smile, always whistling, arms gleaming with sweat. She’d always liked watching him work, when she could sneak a glimpse; had felt the flushed face and fluttery chest that should have been reserved only for handsome young lords.

Leif wasn’t built a thing like the lords back home, with his confident walk, and his large hands, and his big boots, and his short beard, a shade darker than his brilliant hair. But he was still handsome, she thought; very much so.

And his eyes, when he paused beside the frozen fountain, and turned to regard her, were the blue of the cloud-brushed sky over his shoulder.

The fluttering behind her breastbone intensified – tripled, when he rubbed at the back of his neck, and said, cheeks pink with self-consciousness, “It’s much prettier in the summer, when there’s flowers. Now there’s just…” He flapped a hand. “Snow.” He shrugged, and, despite his size and visually obvious toughness, looked a bit helpless.

Tessa found herself smiling. It was terribly endearing, his awkwardness. The young lords of Aquitania all spoke in droll, practiced riddles. Seemingly benign comments that were undercut with sly, sideways glances. Virgin she might be, but she knew a predator’s gaze when she saw one, and she did not see that in Leif now – only the uncertainty of an overgrown boy unsure how to go about all of this.

It was a great comfort.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” she said. “Are those apple trees?”

“What? Oh, oh yes!” he said with relief. “And pears, too. Some cherries over there. Mum’s mad about the blooms in spring; she ordered them special from Aberforth.” He grinned, warming to the topic, and pointed to the nearest one. “Rune fell out of that one when he was three and broke his arm. He didn’t even cry – just bit his tongue until it bled, even when they reset the bone.”

She chuckled, envisioning it. “Poor thing!”

Leif was grinning wide now, nerves forgotten, and leaned in close, voice going conspiratorial. “Mum said he must have cracked his head, then, too, the way he turned out.”

Tessa laughed. “She did not.”

He shrugged. “You met her. She likes honesty.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when his smile widened, and she could see that when he was a little older he’d have generous laugh lines there. He also had dimples, she noted, just visible beneath his beard.

Hilda cleared her throat behind them, and Leif pulled back, eyes popping comically wide.

“Where to next, my prince?” Hilda asked. “Perhaps the training yard? It sounds like something’s happening over there.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Yes.” He gestured. “Shall we?”

“Yes.”

She fell into step beside him as they proceeded up the path, but didn’t reach to take his arm on her own, nor did he offer, not as Birger had last night, nor as the lords back home would have. She didn’t think it cold of him; rather, she thought he was afraid of frightening her. Everything about him, except for rare moments, like the glimpse of his dimpled smile, spoke of caution and restraint.

She appreciated that.

The garden path led through an arched stone arbor with an open iron gate, and from there opened to a broader, more heavily-traveled path across the palace grounds, the flagstones crusted with a rime of snow that had been compacted and smoothed by the passage of many feet. Lady Revna had loaned her a pair of Northern ladies’ boots, too, and Tessa was grateful for their sturdiness now.

They skirted the stables, and the reindeer barns, and Leif pointed out the mews where the hunting hawks and messenger falcons were kept, promising to introduce her to his favorite birds later. They approached a small building of notched logs with a steep, snow-mounded roof, and she heard the sounds of metal clanging, and men grunting and swearing with effort.

“This is where we keep the practice swords and axes,” Leif explained, and they stepped around the building and found the training yard.

It was larger than she expected, much larger than the one at Drake Hold. A long rectangle bordered by low walls, and overlooked by an upper and lower gallery on the side of the palace itself. Benches and weapon racks lined the inner walls; barrels in the corners held water, or sand, or sawdust, she suspected. Sword and tilting dummies were arranged at the far end, and at the near end, she saw three men sparring with blunted practice swords, the ring and clang and shriek of the steel loud enough to have her wincing.

She spotted two pale heads and one dark. Rune was fighting two opponents at once, both other boys bulkier than him.

“Oh,” she said, and, before she’d realized it, clutched at Leif’s sleeve. “He’s outnumbered.”

Leif snorted – but shifted a step closer so her hand rested on his arm beneath the thick wool and leather of his sleeve. “Numbers don’t count when you’re dealing with those two. Rune can handle himself fine.”

Yesterday, Rune had said he was better with a bow than with a blade, and if that was true, he must be a fierce archer, she surmised, because he was…ferocious with a sword.

In only boots, breeches, and a long leather jerkin over a tunic with the sleeves pushed up, he struck, and swirled, and ducked, and struck again, fluid and graceful as a dancer. His dark hair fanned out around him, the silver beads at the ends of his braids slapping at his back and shoulders. His dark eyes were fairly sparkling, and he laughed as he drove one brother back and then whirled to kick the other square in the stomach.

If Leif was handsome, Rune was pretty, the cut of his cheekbones, nose, and jaw sharper, more refined. He wore his beard shaved down to the grain, only a shadow along the harsh edge of his jaw, and though as tall as his brother, he moved more lightly, more quickly.

The first opponent rallied, and Rune met his strike with one, two, three counterstrikes of his own. On the last, he flicked his wrist, slid his blade down the length of the others’ caught it by the crossbeam, and disarmed his opponent in a blink. The sword sailed away, a flash of brightness in the sunlight, and landed on the snow.

In the next breath, Rune spun and brought his sword down in a high arc, as his opponent went low, jumped the swipe of the other boy’s sword, and clapped him in the shoulder with the flat of his own blade.

The boy bellowed, his hand went limp, and the sword fell.

Rune thrust his own sword skyward, crowing his victory, while his opponents rubbed their hurts and scowled at him. When he turned and found them standing there, watching, he was grinning wide, and white, and dazzling, eyes creasing in the same way that his brother’s did, their warm, chocolate brown alight with joy.

Tessa found herself grinning back, and that was before Rune lowered his sword, tilted his head – dark, sweaty hair clinging to his neck, beads clicking together – and winked at her. “Did you come to watch, too, my lady?”

Her chest fluttered anew.

“Come to watch you showing off?” Leif asked.

Tessa said, “Too?”

Rune pointed behind him with his sword. “I dragged your cousin along. In a minute, I’m gonna put a sword in his hand, just watch.”

Against the far wall, sitting on a bench, furred cloak pulled tight around him, Oliver shook his head, eyes going wide. “No, no, he’s not. I’m only watching, Rune.” It sounded like he’d said that more than once while he’d been out here.

“Aw, but that’s no fun,” Rune complained.

Oliver, cheeks and the tip of his nose pink with cold, shook his head again, more firmly. “Not going to happen. No. Nope.”

“Oh,” Tessa said again, more quietly, as Rune turned and pleaded his case in earnest, holding out his own sword in offering. Oliver lifted a hand in protest, tried to look stern, but a smile cracked through. He’d smiled so seldom, lately, and the flash of teeth and the brightening of his eyes made him look his age, thirty, and smoothed the tension of premature stress lines from his brow.

“What?” Leif whispered beside her.

“Ollie,” she murmured. “It’s nice to see him smiling.”

~*~

When Oliver refused to be swayed, Leif agreed to spar with his brother, and Tessa went to sit on the bench beside her cousin. Hilda sat a discreet distance away, and Tessa was starting to think she didn’t miss Hannah staying behind at all.

She watched Leif shrug off his cloak and toss it onto another bench; his tunic stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he took a blunted practice sword down off the rack.

Rune kept moving, to keep his muscles warm, she knew from watching her brother’s training, once upon a time. He looked ready, eager, and despite the gleam of sweat on his brow, not at all tired from his earlier efforts.

“So,” Oliver said, and his tone had her glancing over, and finding his faux-innocent expression. “How was your tour?”

She fought to keep her face serene. “It was very nice.”

“Very nice.”

“Yes. Very.”

His lips twitched, once, before he forced them still, but his eyes danced. His tone was mild when he said, “How was the view?” His gaze cut not-so-subtly toward Leif, stretching his arms up over his ready, readying for the match.

“I liked the garden, even though it’s buried under snow.”

“Tess.”

“Ollie.”

A smirk finally broke loose across his face.

“Stop,” Tessa said, as he chuckled, and turned her now-hot face away.

With a mutual shout, the princes lunged toward one another, and the match began with the chime of steel on steel.

Tessa had never told anyone, because she’d worried it wouldn’t be seen as a ladylike trait, but she’d always enjoyed watching matches like these. The ringing of the blades coming together, the tricky footwork. The show of strength – and, yes, she could admit, the view: strong, skilled bodies pushed to their limit without life or death stakes at play. She felt a thrill build inside her, a flash and ripple of excitement, and didn’t try to keep from knitting her fingers together, and squeezing tight.

It became quickly apparent that Leif was stronger, but Rune was faster. Leif would deliver a devastating blow that had Rune wincing, and the steel screaming, but then Rune would whirl, and dodge, and dance back out of reach again. Their sounds of exertion echoed off the stone walls.

“Rune is too impatient,” Oliver said softly, after a while, and she imagined they were back in Drakewell, sitting in a window ledge together, watching John batter soldiers in the yard. Oliver had always had a keen eye for form, even if he never engaged in matches himself. “He knows what he ought to do, but he doesn’t follow through like he should. That was fine with those other two blockheads, but Leif is much stronger and more skilled than them.”

Tessa nodded. “He’s very quick, though.”

“Sometimes quick is enough,” he said, sagely, “but sometimes it isn’t.”

Leif dropped back, and seemed to lower his guard.

“Don’t fall for it,” Oliver whispered.

Rune grinned, and rushed in. A few moments later, with a ring and a clatter, Rune’s sword went flying.

“Fuck,” he cursed, hotly, and shoved both hands back through his sweat-damp, tangled hair. The move offered a glimpse of his throat, strong and lean, sweat sliding down it in glistening ribbons. A few curls of dark chest hair peeked from the gapped laces at the neck of his tunic, and the fabric clung to the strong, lean muscles of his shoulders, arms, back, and chest.

“Go on and get it,” Leif said, graciously, and Tessa jerked her gaze back to him.

Leif was the one who’d been showing her around all morning.

Leif was the elder, the heir.

It was Leif’s hand in marriage King Erik had offered her.

And he cut a splendid figure, with his heavy arms, and broad shoulders. When he lifted the tail of his tunic to wipe at his face, he flashed them a bit of solid, toned, lightly-furred stomach.

But Rune swore again as he picked up his sword, and flicked snow off his fingertips, and Tessa’s gaze fixed on the unhappy curl of his mouth; her fingers twitched when she saw the way his braids were coming unraveled, wild and in need of redoing.

Belatedly, she realized Oliver had been speaking.

“Tessa?”

“Sorry, what?” She cast her gaze around the practice yard, face even more heated, feeling caught out. She searched for something, anything on which to pin her attention so that she wouldn’t have to admit to anything.

“Who are you–”

“Look,” she said, as a distraction appeared at the gap in the wall, arms folded, heavy fur-trimmed cloak flapping in the breeze. “The king.”