Page 76 of Heart of Winter
“Right.”
“You’ll do fine. Give ‘em another chance – get back up on the horse and all that. And.” He lowered his voice, gaze turning mischievous. “I don’t think it turned outallbad, do you?” He winked before Oliver could stutter a protest. “Come along, then. Go and fetch your dressing gown and we’ll be off.”
His dressing gown, which he gathered up in his arms and stood holding a long moment, in the privacy of his chamber, was the one he’d been wearing ever since the night they’d ridden out to find Tessa and the boys. Which meant that it was, or had been, Erik’s dressing gown. The velvet was worn smooth in places from its years of use, and the hem and sleeves were still much too long. He’d not requested another, though; if Revna was going to so much trouble to outfit him for the feast, he knew he only need ask and he’d be given a brand-new gown of his own. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t want it altered, either. His own gown – silk, and too thin by half for this cold, stone palace – stayed packed away in his trunk. At night, he wrapped this one around himself instead, snuggled deep into its folds, and imagined impossible things, grateful for the knowledge that the velvet had once lain against Erik’s skin, as it now laid against his.
With a shaky exhale, he bundled the gown up in his arms, and went to follow Magnus.
Madwas an apt word for what was happening in the great hall. Guests had been arriving all day, along with deliveries of everything from wine, to food, to extra feather mattresses packed in sleighs. A few trestles had been set up, and people were eating at them, but most of the hall had been given over to the coming and going of servants toting chests, trunks, trays, and laden baskets.
Revna stood on a wooden chair, overseeing it all and directing servants and nobles alike. Tessa stood beside her, Hilda – her ankle much improved – behind her, and she was greeting highborn ladies with her usual quiet grace.
Confident that she was both capable and in capable hands, Oliver ducked down the hallway toward the baths after Magnus.
The first thing Oliver noticed, when they reached the warm, humid tunnel that led to the baths, was the noise. The swell and tumult of many voices that had been absent on his last trip here.
Oliver hesitated, and clutched the dressing gown tighter to his chest.
After a moment, Magnus paused, and turned back to look at him, expression questioning in the flickering light of the cressets.
“Magnus. Is it crowded down here?”
“I expect most people will want a good soak, it being a feast day tomorrow. Servants, merchants – anyone who can steal away for a bit. And our guests will be wanting a wash-up, too.”
He didn’t relish the thought of being naked in front of a whole palace full of people, not when they were to see him in a place of honor tomorrow.
Not ever, really.
A particularly loud shout echoed from the bathing chamber, and Magnus’s expression brightened. “I wouldn’t be too worried, lad. Lord Askr is in there, by the sound of it, and he’ll be holding court. No one will notice you.”
Feeling only slightly better, Oliver continued on, trying to ignore the shakiness in his knees.
The dressing room, with its shelves and cubbies and baskets, was full of men in various states of undress, some coming and some leaving. The floor was strewn with puddles, and the shelves were loaded with furs, and cloaks, and tunics; boots sat lined up along the wall. They were talking to one another, trading good-natured insults, and ignored Oliver as he slipped up to the shelves. When Magnus started undressing, carefree and unhurried, Oliver scrambled out of his own clothes, stowed them, and tugged on his dressing gown. Belted it extra tight.
Magnus snorted in amusement, and Oliver pretended not to hear.
“Ready?” Magnus had pulled on a soft, worn robe, and tied it only loosely, a large wedge of strong, furred chest on display. He hefted the basket of food, and awaited Oliver’s nod before turning toward the vast chamber of hot springs.
Steam boiled up in thick clouds, shifting over the occupants of the near pools: men lounging waist-deep in water, their bodies all carved in various shapes of strong. Big-bellied, wasp-waist lean, no matter the build, each man was roped, laced, and padded with the muscle borne of hard work on the battlefield or the training yard. Red hair, blond hair, brown hair, black hair – all of it was braided in unique, intricate styles threaded with beads, and jewels, and other decorations. Some boasted long beads braided into patterns set with flat, enameled beads. And there were tattoos, as well, on throats, and across chests, and curving around thick biceps: everything from animals, to flowers, to runes.
Everyone’s attention was fixed on a man who stood unabashedly naked at the edge of a pool, his fiery red hair coiled atop his head in a crown made of dozens of narrow braids, his beard halfway down his chest and set at the ends with small ivory beads that looked carved from animal bones.
“…and so then he said,” the man was saying – projecting, really, his voice booming off stone and water, raised to a battlefield pitch. “‘If you think I’ll let you insult my wife…’ And I said, ‘Ho, that’s your wife? I thought it was your horse!’”
This story was met with uproarious laughter.
Magnus chuckled, and led them down a path between two pools. “This way. It’s quieter back here.”
Oliver followed, relieved–
Only to hear, “Oi. You must be the Southerner, then.”
Oliver froze. It was the redheaded grandstander who’d called out to him – Lord Askr, at a guess – and all heads turned toward Oliver. He clutched the end of his dressing gown in one hand, trying to keep it from trailing along the wet floor, and reached now to close it more firmly at his throat. He stood up straight, though, beneath Askr’s – beneath everyone’s – curious gazes.
He’d not gone out of his way to make friends, nor even acquaintances here. Magnus and the princes had been the ones to befriend him, making the first overtures. He’d become closer to Birger, and to Revna, and, yes, Erik. Erik most of all. Surely everyone living in the palace – and now the visitors, too, thanks to gossip – had noted that Oliver spoke only with the royal family. That he kept far too much company with the king.
But he would not cower – not outwardly. He lifted his chin, met Lord Askr’s gaze, and said, “I am, yes. Oliver Meacham. Pleased to meet you.”
“The Drakewell bastard,” someone said, the face of the speaker lost in the steam.
