Page 20 of Heart of Winter
“I won’t make you spar,” Rune assured, then tipped his head. “Unless you want to…?”
“Watching’s plenty exciting for me, thanks.”
If it was possible, the boy brightened further. “You’ll come?”
“Sure.”
“Ha! Wait here. I have to go and get my things.” He bolted up from the table, leaving his dirty plate behind, and went sprinting for the staircase.”
Birger said, “Oh, to be that young again. The energy of them at that age.”
“I never had that much energy at his age,” Oliver said.
Birger snorted. “More brains, though, I’d wager.”
Oliver shrugged, uncertain of the praise; he wasn’t used to it. “King Erik is a second son, then?” He knew that he was, but he’d only read it in a book passage, a few throwaway lines about Prince Arne falling in battle beside his father, the aging King Frode.
Birger looked at him like he suspected Oliver wasn’t ignorant of the fact, but answered readily enough. “Aye. Third, actually. Herleif died when they were only children.” His expression grew somber. “Terrible thing. Unexpected. The queen was disconsolate. Arne became heir, and he took to it gamely. Erik was wild back then. Like Rune, only – less happy.” He shook his head. “Losing his father and brother, so soon after the queen fell to illness, it broke something inside him. Something weakened by Herleif’s death.” His gaze shifted to sternness. “I tell you this so that you might think better of him, not to go spreading his personal family history about.”
Oliver paused, mug halfway to his mouth. “I understand,” he said, hoping to convey just how much so.
Birger held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, and stood. “If the young ones do decide to marry, I suspect you and I will have much to discuss in the coming weeks. We’ll talk soon.” He smiled and ambled off.
Oliver picked at his bread crust, and wondered what Erik’s blue eyes would look like young and full of vigor – almost as much as he wondered what they’d look like full of happiness.
7
Tessa had known her entire life that she would marry, and marry a lord of some kind at that. She’d been thirteen before she’d finally started feeling a faint kindling of heat in her belly when she looked at a pretty boy. A flush in her cheeks, a fluttering in her chest, a sense of running out of air, and terrible nerves; she’d worked hard to break the habit of knotting her fingers together, though she’d fallen back into it only last night.
Her mother had talked about the need to make asmart match. But Father –Father: if she let him slip into her thoughts now, pain knifed through her, leaving her reeling and sick – had said he’d find her agood match, and the softness of his smile had told her thatsmartandgoodwere very different things.
A year ago, the heir of Hope Hall, the trim and tidy, handsome, golden-haired Lord Reginald had accepted her favor at the May Day tourney; had bowed his bright head in thanks, his straight, confident smile leaving her insides like jelly. So much had changed in a year.
Everything had changed.
Lord Reginald was off to war, and here she was in Aeres, pacing beside a prince instead, as they walked through a quiet, snow-mantled garden filled only with the tittering of birds, and the sigh of the breeze in the dormant fruit tree branches.
Tessa had neverlovedLord Reginald, not even from afar; for her, love seemed to require something beyond distant glimpses and vivid imaginings. Her friends had all professed their undying love to young lords they’d never met, but Tessa had only ever loved her family, and her favorite dog, and she thought there must be something wrong with her not to feel such aching tenderness as the other girls described.
It was only ever a physical warmth for her, pleasant, but fleeting, and not enough to build a life upon. She would marry when it was required of her, for her family’s sake, but she didn’t dare hope for love.
Admiration, though…
Lord Reginald’s most striking feature had been his gleaming golden hair, cropped in short curls in the Southern fashion.
Leif’s hair was gold, too – though not a single shade. Instead a bright spill of honey, and amber, and straw, and pure, spun gold, a rare ocher strand visible in the small braids he wore behind his ears. Silver beads and brilliant sapphires winked within its mass, decorating his braids; a heavy silver barrette held it back from his face, and the rest tumbled down across his shoulders.
Broad shoulders, made broader by leather and fur. He was much bigger than Reginald; she could see the way his arms bunched and flexed, testing his sleeves in a way that reminded her of the strong, bare arms of their blacksmith back home. He’d been young, their blacksmith, fresh from an apprenticeship, always with a smile, always whistling, arms gleaming with sweat. She’d always liked watching him work, when she could sneak a glimpse; had felt the flushed face and fluttery chest that should have been reserved only for handsome young lords.
Leif wasn’t built a thing like the lords back home, with his confident walk, and his large hands, and his big boots, and his short beard, a shade darker than his brilliant hair. But he was still handsome, she thought; very much so.
And his eyes, when he paused beside the frozen fountain, and turned to regard her, were the blue of the cloud-brushed sky over his shoulder.
The fluttering behind her breastbone intensified – tripled, when he rubbed at the back of his neck, and said, cheeks pink with self-consciousness, “It’s much prettier in the summer, when there’s flowers. Now there’s just…” He flapped a hand. “Snow.” He shrugged, and, despite his size and visually obvious toughness, looked a bit helpless.
Tessa found herself smiling. It was terribly endearing, his awkwardness. The young lords of Aquitania all spoke in droll, practiced riddles. Seemingly benign comments that were undercut with sly, sideways glances. Virgin she might be, but she knew a predator’s gaze when she saw one, and she did not see that in Leif now – only the uncertainty of an overgrown boy unsure how to go about all of this.
It was a great comfort.
