Before Brant knew what the man was about, Lester stood and lifted his cup of mead into the air, throwing the drink onto Della. Amber liquid flew from the goblet. A burst of surprised laughter sounded as Lester’s men pounded their fists.
Della knew Lord Lester’s intent long before he tossed the liquid at her. Daring him with her eyes, she waited for him to stand. Part of her hoped Brant would stop his attack, but he sat watching in moody silence. As the liquid came toward her, she refused to move except to turn her head proudly away. She shut her eyes as mead doused her hair and trickled down the front of her dress. It soaked her face with its warm stickiness, burning the raw scrape of her wound. As the last of the contents soaked into her gown, she rubbed her eyes clean with her sleeve before redirecting her gaze to the table.
Brant didn’t move, didn’t stop Lester’s evil laugh. She heard the soldiers’ merriment—mocking her, disrespecting her, all except Gunther, who looked about in open disgust at the whole scene.
What had happened in the short time since she had been married? In just over a sennight, the men’s loyalty had been won by Lord Blackwell. She’d fought for many years to earn their respect and in a few short weeks it was all gone—taken away by her barbarian husband. And there was nothing she could do about it. Suddenly she stood, having taken the humiliation long enough.
The liquor dried on her flesh, pasting thin strands of her blonde hair to her neck in misshapen trails. Her thin shoulders shook with anguish. Anguish at the betrayal of her manor. Anguish at the disrespect she was forced to endure.
Her voice was clear and sure as she announced, “I have had enough! Now, you will let me explain myself. After I have spoken my peace, you may judge as you see fit.”
The hall went quiet amid a myriad of hushes. The onlookers craned their necks to get a good view of the front, wanting to see what Lord Blackwell would do next to his unruly wife. Brant tilted his head, stiffly giving her leave to speak. Her chin jutted defiantly in the air and she gripped the material at her waist to keep her hands from trembling. The braided gold cord tangled in her fingers.
“Methought you were that detestable piece of refuse, Lord Lester.” She shot Lester a nasty scowl. The man had the audacity to look offended. Brant watched her through veiled eyes, stroking his bottom lip, but said nothing.
“A moment before, over there.” Della flung her arm behind her, her chest heaving with gasps of air. Inside, she shook with the effort it took to face her menacing husband. Outside, she did her best to remain calm. “A moment before you came in, he dared to touch me and say that I was to spend this night with him. He said he would talk seductively to me, implying you didn’t know how to treat me in the marriage bed. It was him methought I was shouting at, not you.”
A tear slipped from her eye and she bit her lip as the salty moisture stung her raw cheek. No one dared to speak so she turned to Lord Lester and continued, “You, Lord Lester, are a lewd, foul-smelling pig. Get you quick to a bath lest my nose rots off from the offensive lingerings of your smell. Yea, and before I have to burn aught else you touch.”
The soldiers suddenly slapped their fists on the table, shouting encouragement to her words. She turned a hard look on them until they quieted. Bitterly she frowned at them, shaking her head slowly. Not one of them had come to her defense before. A few in the front looked sheepishly away from her icy gaze.
“I would not say those things of you, my lord husband.” Della’s voice quieted. Brant had every right to be angry, though it was a misunderstanding. “I could not, for you are more man than this hall combined. I would fight to the death anyone who claims otherwise. I am sorry I yelled.” Della sniffed. Her words trailed off into a mere whisper. “I beg your forgiveness.”
She’d meant only to say the words to assuage his anger and restore some of his pride. But, as she spoke, she found part of her believed the words. She kept her head high and proud, though she’d humbled herself greatly.
Brant said nothing, his eyes searching her, looking her up and down, as if he weighed her words. Could she really blame him if he didn’t believe her? Didn’t trust her? Theirs wasn’t a marriage built on trust. Slowly, his face reddened. His fist tightened in front of his mouth into a hard ball.
Believing his continued wrath was her doing, she knew she’d better take the chance to make it up to him. His reputation had been threatened. For a moment, she closed her eyes to the pain her words were going to cause her. A memory, brief and potent, of her mother came to her. She opened her eyes with determination.