Page 6 of Heart of Winter
Bjorn steered them in closer.
The king, it appeared, was listening to petitions.
Fashions were different in this part of the world, but Oliver knew a farmer when he saw one: the man stood with a woolen cap in his hands, his weathered face tipped up in entreaty. “You see, your majesty, it’s the glass in my hothouses. It’s all been shattered.”
“By the cold?” King Erik asked. His voice was low, and deep, and rusted at the edges.
“No, your majesty. It was – it was sabotage!”
The king rested an elbow on the arm of his throne, and his chin on his raised fist. His beard was dark, and kept close. It still offered a glimpse of the hard line of his jaw. “An assumption?”
“I found rocks, your majesty, and not decorative ones, neither.”
“Hmm.” The king stroked his own chin in contemplation – and then his gaze lifted over the farmer’s head and settled on Oliver and his cousin and his escort, for one piercing second. Then away again. “Bjorn!”
Bjorn stepped past them. “Aye?”
“Send someone to have a look round Gorm’s farm. I want to know if someone’s breaking hothouse glass on purpose.”
“Aye.”
The farmer – Gorm – bowed, murmured his thanks, and left the hall.
Which put them next in line.
Bjorn fired off a command to one of the men lounging against the wall – who nodded and left – then his hand was back on Oliver’s shoulder, pushing him forward again.
Right to the base of the dais, close enough to see that King Erik’s eyes were blue, but nothing at all like’s Leif’s, with their warm, quiet amusement. The king’s were hard, and flat, and unreadable – the nearest emotion seemed to be disdain.
Oliver gulped, quite against his will.
“These are the Southerners?” the king asked.
“Aye,” Bjorn said, andshookOliver. He felt like a puppy in a giant’s grip. “Cousins! Lord Oliver and Lady Tessa.” Oliver was tired of correcting him, at this point. Bjorn laughed. “Say hello to your bride, Erik!”
Echoing laughter rippled through the crowd of bystanders, and Oliver bristled on his cousin’s behalf.
But Erik lifted a ringed hand and the laughter cut off suddenly, and completely. He stared at them – Oliver struggled to keep his shoulders back, and his spine rigid beneath the cold, judgmental weight of that stare – and then finally curled a single finger and said, “Approach.”
The princes stepped apart, their gazes watchful, and Oliver wasn’t going to let Tessa – now trembling –approachon her own. He covered her hand with his own where it rested on his arm, and they walked forward – up the three steps to the dais itself when that finger crooked again.
“Your majesty.”
“Your majesty,” Tessa echoed, softly, and executed a perfect, one-handed curtsy, though she shivered all over with nerves.
The king studied them each in turn, cold blue eyes moving impersonally over them, head to toe. When it was his turn, Oliver felt sure Erik could see how nervous he was – how afraid.
Watery sunlight pierced a high window, a single, white shaft that caught the silver of the heavy ring on the king’s first finger: it was shaped like a stag’s head, antlers and all, Oliver noted.
Finally, King Erik nodded. “Yes, fine. You’ll suit.”
“Beg pardon?” Oliver asked, as Tessa’s hand closed vice-tight below his elbow.
Erik met his gaze, finally, managing to be both disinterested, and piercing. “She’ll do. We can draw up the contract after supper.”
“Contract – your majesty,” Oliver said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “I’d thought you might like to get to know Tessa a little, before you agreed to marry her.” The king was certainly as handsome –gorgeous, his brain supplied, unhelpfully – as his nephews, but lacked all their charm.
Erik tipped his head back a fraction, so he managed to look down his nose at Oliver, despite being the one seated. He snorted. “I won’t be marrying her, Mr. Meacham.”
