Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(125)

Eyeing the satchel helplessly, her heart pounded in a painful rhythm. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say. This man was not the cousin she loved. This man was a stranger. The Stuart she knew was dead.

“Serilda is outside. She will see to your head.” Stuart turned to go, only to stop at the door. “And to your cheek. You really must be more careful in the future. I’m sure that bruise was not there earlier.”

“Nay,” Della answered, vehemently. “I don’t want that whore touching me.”

“So be it for now.” He gestured with a sigh of indifference. “But, sooner or later, she will have to attend you.”

Her flesh crawled as his gaze moved to her stomach and then back to her face. Della read the meaning in his expression, but she couldn’t believe it. “Just what do you mean? I do not need her help.”

His amused laughter echoed so terrifyingly loud that Della imagined the rafters shook with the force of it. She edged away from him, no longer able to feign bravery. When he finished, he shook his head and refused to answer. With a gallant bow, he left her alone in the chamber, locking the door behind him.

Terrified, she tried her legs. They failed her and she fell back into the small cot with a heartbroken sob. What was she going to do?

Della hit the wall, trying to break through the rotted wood. It was stronger than she’d imagined. Her knuckles scraped along the rough surface. The wounds were superficial, though some did bleed. It didn’t matter. Even if she could break through the walls, she couldn’t crawl to safety before being discovered. She wouldn’t even know which direction to go.

Lying back in the bed, she rested her hand over her eyes to block out the firelight. Despair welled within her and a tear trickled from beneath her fingers. Silently, she prayed for the protection of her child and the safe deliverance of her husband. But, as she thought the words, she wasn’t sure anyone heard them.





* * * * *


Brant shook his head, leaning back so his hair fell away from his face. A relentless rain pelted him and his troops. The knights huddled on their mounts, trying to stay warm beneath the thin cloaks they carried. Their horses’ hooves dragged sluggishly through the muck in steady thuds. The foul weather notwithstanding, it was good to be going home.

Brant hated the politics he had been forced to endure, and no peace would be met between King Alfred and King Guthrum, though neither party admitted as much. The entire evening they were together had been filled with drinking and the silent measuring of each other’s resolve. The kings talked of many noble things and agreed on none of them.

After the long meeting, King Guthrum gave Brant and his men leave to ride ahead. Guthrum’s political campaigning would take him away from Strathfeld. Although no war had been declared, Brant feared that soon one might be—if not a war with King Alfred, then a battle with his beautiful Della. He was not sure whom he feared most—a great army or his wife.

They approached the isolated wall of Strathfeld and he reined his destrier on the stone path before the main gate. It stayed closed, shutting him out of his own home. The horse’s hooves pawed restlessly beneath him, sensing his displeasure. He motioned to a knight to hold up a banner. The man obeyed, waving the blue cloth before the wall.

Frowning, he briefly wondered if Della locked him out. He’d known she would be angry at his hasty departure, but he didn’t fathom that she would be so bold as to openly defy him in front of his men. Even if she did, Gunther would not stand for it.

He looked over the long line of drenched men-at-arms. With a grim sense of foreboding, he slashed his hand toward the knight, ordering him to drop the banner. The manor was eerily quiet. He studied the wall, but saw no guards, no signs of attack. Taking his stallion by the reins, he galloped along the edge of the moat, around the side of the outer bailey wall, trying to gain a watchman’s attention with the sound of pounding hooves.

“Edwyn!” Brant yelled into the wind several times. The man probably couldn’t hear him in the stormy weather. Spurring his horse back to his men, he sat astride his steed and pondered the length of the wall. Instantly, he thought of Della’s secret entrance, but knew that it would be a shame to have to make its presence known to the men if it were not necessary.

After several baffled minutes of staring along the dreary stone not knowing what to do, he heard the bridge begin to lower. The wood creaked slow and steady as it neared the ground. The sound was unnervingly loud in light of the abandoned wall. His gut clenched with apprehension, as he led his knights forward. Straightening his shoulders, he bravely faced whatever was ahead. He almost hoped it was an army and not an angry wife. An army he could well handle.