Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice
Chapter One
Strathfeld Castle, Northumbria, 871 A.D.
“Methinks my sire has lost his bloody mind! It would seem this man is truly a barbarian.”
Wrinkling her nose, Lady Della lifted her chin haughtily into the air, trying to hide her apprehension beneath a composed expression. Under the long skirts of her blue overtunic she tapped her foot, staring across the main hall to where her father spoke to their Nordic visitor. She took a calming breath and then another, doing her best not to let her aggravation show.
I am a lady, she thought with a feeling of resentment curling through her entire being. I am above him.
Her fingers worked against her waist in frustration, causing the fine linen of her gown to crumple beneath her hold. She concealed her scorn under an icy mask of indifference. It was an old habit, one she’d cultivated through years of practice. The dirty Viking glanced around the hall, paying her no mind. However, she watched him intently from the shadowed end of the stairwell, taking in his every gesture like a falcon waiting for a sign of weakness—something, anything she could use against him.
The warrior laughed, nodding in agreement at something the Ealdorman of Strathfeld said. Lord Strathfeld was her distinguished and honored father, though Della was hard pressed to think so highly of him this day. Her irritation deepened as the grating sound of the warrior’s merriment only continued.
Grumbling under her breath, she said, “We may have to show allegiance to the heathens, but this goes too far.”
“M’lady,” her faithful servant scolded. Della didn’t take offense to the light reprimand in Ebba’s tone. They had known each other for too long, though not exactly friends, they were as close as a maid and her lady could be. “It’s not yer place to question yer sire’s wishes. He has good reason fer this match or else he would ne’er make it.”
Della gave the maid a stiff smile. Feigning nonchalance, she stepped out of the shadows to edge closer to where the men talked. Though she strained her ears, she failed to make out a single word they said.
“Yea, he has his reasons. He thinks by making me wed this barbarian, it will ensure an alliance with King Guthrum in case there is to be another war. With Aethelred so recently in his grave and his brother, Alfred, just named his successor, times are uncertain, especially with Wessex so close to falling under Viking rule.”
The entire time she spoke, Della kept her eyes coolly on the warrior, taking in every detail of his figure. She found herself unimpressed with him, having expected more of the legendary man—Brant. Lord Blackwell. Brant the Gladiator. Brant the Vigorous. Brant the Flame. Brant the Viking Hero.
Della snorted in unladylike disgust. More like, Brant the Thorn in my Arse!
“M’lady?” Ebba tilted her head in confusion, causing her short, black curls to bob as she moved. She imitated her mistress by pulling at her own clean, white apron.
“Yea, he has his reasons.” Della glanced wearily at the maid, who really had no understanding of politics. The noblewoman didn’t know why she bothered to explain them as she turned her eyes forward once again to her intended.
The Norseman was dressed as if he’d just come from battle, still wearing his shirt of chainmail. Della was surprised he hadn’t rushed boldly into the hall, brandishing his bloodied sword, calling out Nordic curses to his pagan gods. She couldn’t help but wonder how many Anglo-Saxons the barbarian had killed. By reputation, it was many.
Della was predominately of Saxon heritage, though not directly related to those in Wessex. Would Lord Blackwell’s anger toward the race be transferred onto her in their marriage? The only reason her father retained his title was because of a single drop of royal Viking blood in their ancestry, from when the heathens had first come to Briton. That and her father had proven himself a loyal and valuable man to his Viking overlords.
Briton had been ravished by wars for several hundred years, perhaps since the beginning of time itself. Wessex to the south raged against the Vikings to the north. Her Northumbrian home was in the middle of it all, firmly held by their Viking rulers. No matter how she secretly wished victory for the Wessex king, it wasn’t likely her traitorous prayers would be answered. In truth, Della wasn’t sure the Christian God could hear prayers said in a pagan land.
The world will always be at war so long as men are in it, regardless of my marriage to Brant the Thorn! Della fumed inwardly.
The barbarian lord nodded as her father pointed up into the high rafters of the main hall. Whatever it was they talked about, it looked to be a serious conversation. Della turned back to her handmaid. “Times mayhap are uncertain, but my cousin, Sir Stuart of Grayson, could well man this keep. Methinks he would make a more likely choice in husband and father to my children.”