Della took her time dressing, stopping to scrub her face in the basin of cool water Ebba had left out. She’d decided to forgive the girl for her part in the checking. It was hard for Della to stay mad at her. Besides, if she didn’t forgive the maid, Ebba would have spent the next century on her knees pleading with her. Della laughed aloud at the memory. Ebba had actually laid down in front of her chamber door, refusing to leave until Della spoke to her.
Fully dressed, Della moved to her bed and picked up her sewing. The black linen was the finest in the manor. She’d spent her time in seclusion sewing clothes for her husband, as a thank you for his help. She doubted she could have managed the keep half as well in her sorrowful condition.
With a few deft strokes, she finished the stitching and bit the thread with her teeth, completing the final touches on the braccas and undertunics. In total, there were six pairs ranging in colors from brown to black to one white undertunic. Della had taken much more care to decide his overtunic colors. She wanted what would look best on him as Lord of the manor and new Ealdorman of Strathfeld. Black was for his dark heathen nature. Brown because it was a serviceable color that matched everything. Dark blue for it would complement the light blue of his summer eyes. Brownish-red was for his ‘fiery’ disposition. And two white because every nobleman needed a good white tunic.
The only thing she had left was to appliqué the embroidered silk onto the edges of the overtunics. Once finished, he would truly look like a nobleman worthy of the title her father had left him. Della gave a sad smile as she examined the large shirts. She used to sew such things for her father. Being awake twenty hours of the day left a person with a lot of extra time.
Knowing she didn’t have the materials needed to finish them, she decided to search out Quinn. He was the only one she trusted when it came to overseeing the sewing. The man wielded a needle and weaving loom like a knight wielded a sword and shield. This wouldn’t be the first time she had awoken one of the servants before dawn to help her.
Della honed many skills within the night hours. She’d designed the castle, learned to play hnefa-tafl, had perfected her reading and penmanship, and had even taught herself to dance. Any lesson was better than staring through the darkness at the fireplace waiting for the dawn, although she had done her share of that as well.
Sighing, she gathered the overtunics into her arms and carried them to the door. Before stepping into the hall, she hesitated. Her eyes strayed to Brant’s closed door. She wondered if he slept there and if he was alone. Then shaking her head, she frowned.
“I hope that he finds someone to fill his nights.” Hugging the material closer, she didn’t look at his door again as she hurried by it. Her feet soundlessly moved over the stone in search of Quinn. She didn’t want to admit she was excited to see her lord husband well-dressed. Muttering in irritation as she walked, she said, “I am only sewing for him so as not to be embarrassed by his appearance. I care not what he looks like. I care not if he likes the gifts.”
Even as she said the words, she heard her own laughter mocking her from the back of her mind.
* * * * *
“Oh, yea! This is truly marvelous!”
Brant stopped, not sure whether he could believe his ears. He tilted his head and listened again. Silence. Scratching his freshly trimmed beard, he shook his head with a short, weary laugh. He’d been on his way to the exercise field when he swore he heard his wife’s excited voice coming from one of the empty chambers. Looking back down the hall to where her chamber door was shut, he studied the hard wood for a moment. Then, not hearing anything else, he moved again toward the stairs. His wife was no doubt still in bed.
He’d scarcely seen Della since the evening of her father’s death, but he soon came to realize the affection she showed him had been only an act to please a dying man. For a moment, her act had been convincing.
Brant could still feel her slender body in his arms, clinging to him, as she cried into his chest. He’d stroked the soft length of her hair, his fingers tangling in the tresses. And, when finally he pulled back to look at her face, she’d stared up at him in stunned surprise.
Pausing near the stairwell, he closed his eyes. He could still see her beautiful lips as they trembled in question and the dark sweep of her moist lashes as she looked at him. And he knew well the exact instant she recognized who held her. Her eyes had been swollen red with the heat of her grief, but their amber depth shot their ice accusingly at him. She ripped herself from his embrace and visibly shuddered in repulsion at his touch. The look she gave him burned eternally in his mind.