Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(20)
It had been his intent to punish her and instead he felt as if he punished himself. Moving quietly, he left her, feeling guiltier than he ever had in his life. The image of her small, shuddering body haunted him. Exhausted, he closed the door to her chamber and moved down the hall to the stairwell. Then, hearing a noise, he stopped and listened. A hushed sob echoed from her bedchamber. The noise only added torture to his guilt-laden soul as he made his way belowstairs.
Chapter Four
A warm breeze swept over the bailey to stir the wayward strands of Della’s hair, molding her tunic gown over her body. The glint of steel caught her eye as she gingerly fingered the cold metal of the new sword she’d been given to hold during the pagan ritual. It was a fine weapon with intricate carvings in the hilt. She only wished she knew how to wield it correctly. Mayhap then Brant would not be smiling so vaingloriously next to her.
“How hard could it be? Lift and swing,” she mumbled to herself, moving it slightly so it drifted back and forth like a pendulum. “Lift and…swing.”
Brant glanced briefly at her in amusement, a small smile curling beneath his short beard. Della snapped her mouth shut, realizing she’d muttered it loud enough for him to hear. He turned back to her father.
It was their wedding ceremony. Both of them had been bathed first in hot water and then again in cold, dressed, scented, and finally marched out into the bailey to stand before witnesses. Della found it odd that they were outside the chapel, rather than in it.
More pagan nonsense.
Brant wore a clean tunic, though it too lacked the proper embellishments of nobility and was cut in the barbaric style of his people. Belted at the waist, it fell to mid-thigh. The long sleeves were rolled at the wrists. She wondered why a man in his position didn’t order adequate clothing sewn. Surely he had servants at Blackwell Manor who could have attended to it. It was embarrassing for him to be dressed so on this day and thus a vexation for her.
Della had avoided confrontation with him since he’d brought the midwife to her chamber. She was still sore, deep inside. Serilda’s touch had been anything but gentle. Invariably, when she thought of it, Della would shudder with revulsion and feel violated anew. Though she had partly brought it on herself, she found it much easier to blame her intended. She had seen Brant only once since that time, briefly, while dining, but luckily their guests had started to arrive and she had not been forced to endure his presence.
“In light of the betrothal two nights past, Lord Blackwell did present me with the handgeld, or the mundr for our Viking guests.” Lord Strathfeld stood next to Brant and shook his hand in confirmation of the receipt of payment for the hand of his daughter. “And as due to him, I present my daughter’s heiman fylgia, her dowry.”
Della turned an unamused stare to her father as he pronounced the Norse words, but said nothing. He didn’t notice her displeasure as he smiled benevolently over the gathered throng. She had also refused to talk to him, feeling very much betrayed and very alone.
Della knew there was no turning back. The betrothal agreement between her father and her bridegroom was as binding as the marriage itself. If she were to refuse, Brant would have a legal claim to her father’s land and title. Even if Lord Strathfeld were to refuse, King Guthrum could easily give it to Blackwell for him. She lifted her chin as she felt Brant step closer. The tangy scent of mint and rosemary drifted off his body. Della self-consciously edged away from him under the pretense of adjusting her sword.
“Since the death of my unborn son, I have only a daughter to leave my worldly possessions to. So, in light of my death, she will receive Strathfeld and all of its holdings to be held and managed in good faith by her husband, the future Ealdorman of Strathfeld.” Her father paused in his speech, coughing and pounding himself on the chest.
Della clutched her hands together around the tang of the sword at the mention of her brother’s death. A terrible ache stirred deep inside, almost choking her. She stared boldly forward, not letting her anguish show. The tears crystallized in her eyes before they ever had a chance to completely thaw. In truth, none would ever know if the babe had been a girl or boy, only that it had died along with her mother. The horrible memory stiffened her resolve against her soon-to-be husband.
“With the consent and blessing of our King Guthrum, I name Lord Blackwell, future Ealdorman of Strathfeld, the only heir to my title.” Her father finished with another handshake to the bridegroom to seal the pact of trust.
Della stiffened as the witnesses cheered behind her. She adjusted her head rail of white gauze. Over the rail, she wore a crown of small purple flowers entwined with a halo of wheat. A wayward stalk kept poking the side of her head, causing her irritation to grow, and her mind drifted from her father’s words, as he continued to speak.