Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(23)

Not that his forbidding will do any good, she assured herself.

Plastering a false smile on her features, she stood at the high table, looking over the feasting wedding guests, pausing to nod regally to her father’s friends as they lifted their cups in her direction. She let her gaze travel over the crowd and concentrated to keep her agony from her face. In truth, she didn’t know many of the guests. There were the servants, knights, and a handful of nobles who’d fought with her father. She even could distinguish a few of the men who fought under Brant, Vikings all of them. They had been lurking about the manor since her husband’s arrival.

The eve wore on mercilessly. Her muscles were bunched into hard knots and it felt as if her stomach was on fire. Several times one lord of something or the other would venture to the high table to give words of congratulations and ask the proper questions of the ealdorman’s health. Della said nothing as Brant dutifully answered the queries.

Traveling minstrels played a lively tune, prompting some of those in the hall to dance. Others drank and gamed with vigor. She directed a withering look at a few of the maids who brazenly consorted with the robust male visitors. Della could not stop them from finding a bed partner to share the night with and they would not seek her approval before doing so.

Men at the lower tables devoured the feast, spitting the bones and waste onto the floor like mad dogs. The rushes were already soiled and she knew the stone beneath them would have to be limed, a horrible chore that would take all of a morning to complete. She shivered in disgust, having worked so hard to keep her home clean only to watch her hall destroyed.

A grim-faced man standing in the back of the hall caught her attention as he glared at the guests. He was the only person not visibly enjoying himself. Della nodded to him and smiled.

“Who is that?” Brant asked suspiciously.

Della grimaced as he addressed her, refusing to look at him. It didn’t help. She could still see the piercing gaze of his blue eyes clearly in her mind. “Perchance it is another lover. Would you like to have me checked again this night? Mayhap Serilda did not do it good enough the first time.”

“Della,” Brant warned.

“He’s my father’s seneschal, Edwyn, and he is just arrived from visiting King Guthrum. My father had him personally deliver the news of our impending nuptials and the completion of the betrothal agreement, as per request of the king.”

Brant nodded, visibly relaxing at the explanation. He didn’t comment on her abrupt tone.

“And afore you accuse me of aught else, Edwyn is an honorable man. He’s only a friend to me and has helped me to manage this keep while my father was away.” She shot her husband a sidelong look from beneath her lashes. “Besides, he’s rather aged don’t you think?”

Gunther interrupted their conversation and drew Brant’s attention away from her. She didn’t understand the words they spoke in their shared foreign tongue. Ignoring them, she discreetly motioned Edwyn to her side. The older man nodded and made his way to the high table.

“Edwyn, it’s good you are back with us.” Della presented her hand to him, which he took briefly.

“M’lady.” Edwyn nodded.

“Have you been to see my father?” Della’s question came out in a rush, belying her uneasiness. She kept her features calm in case anyone looked at her.

“Yea, m’lady. He bid me to bear witness to the completion of the ceremony and report back to him.” Edwyn sighed. She forced herself to look over the hall with a slight smile she didn’t feel. “It would seem he is not doing too well. I told him to seek the help of healers nigh on three sennights ago, but you know yer father. He would not hear of it.”

“You knew he was sick?” Della was unable to keep the pain from her voice. She moved an unconscious hand to his arm. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Lord Strathfeld was wounded at Martin. We thought he would heal, but after a time, the wound just got worse. M’lord has been fighting to see this day and is very proud of you. No one was told of the illness. He was afraid if the news was revealed before you were wed, Sir Stuart might try to intercede and make a move fer the title. And, m’lady, Lord Strathfeld is well aware of yer fondness fer yer cousin.”

Della nodded as she fell back into her seat, weak with the realization of her father’s scheme. Finally it made sense to her—the hasty engagement, the push for a quick wedding, her father’s desire to please the Viking king. In her father’s mind, he was protecting her from an uncertain world. She knew Lord Strathfeld believed that they had a force to reckon with in the new King of Wessex. And she also knew it was impossible to change political loyalties at this juncture. Her father had agreed to the marriage to ensure she had the protection of the Viking armies behind her if the war was to spread itself into Northumbria once more.