Page 93 of Heart of Winter
“It’s fine,” he whispered, though his throat was dry, and nervous sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. “Just gossip, right?”
He stared over Leif’s shoulder at the back of Erik’s head, his hair feathered amongst the black fur of his cloak.What in gods’ names did you braid into my hair?he wanted to know.
The thing was: hedidknow. Not specifically, maybe, but he knew the ornaments in his hair marked him, in some way, as bearing the king’s special interest and affection. It was only that it had seemed thrilling upstairs, away from prying eyes, and now seemed like he wore tiny archery targets behind his ears.
It seemed to take forever to reach the high table, but, finally, Oliver was pulling out a chair for Tessa, and sitting down in his own. It was worse, somehow, because though he could no longer hear what was being said, he could see all the eyes fixed on him; could watch people lean together to whisper to one another, staring at him all the while.
Leif sat down on his other side. “Ignore them,” he said, quietly. “It’s only talk. Don’t let it get to you.”
Oliver swallowed with difficulty before he could answer. “Easier said than done.” A darted glance proved the prince was looking down on the feast goers with a mildly pleasant expression, one practiced and befitting a prince. “What exactly are these bobs in my hair saying to them?”
Leif flicked a sideways grin. “They’re lover’s beads,” he whispered.
“Oh. Well. That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought everyone assumed I wasfucking the king,” he whispered back.
Leif snorted, and covered his widening grin with his knuckles. “The night’s still young. Unless…” He lifted a brow. “You don’twantto be fucking the king?”
“You,” Oliver said, “are a brat. Aeretoll is doomed.”
Leif chuckled.
Erik was two seats away, his sister between him and Tessa, but Oliver didn’t dare glance toward him, now, afraid it would lead to even more speculation from the crowd below.
He scanned their faces, not lingering on any one for too long, not making eye contact. He had the impression of fine, gleaming furs, rich velvets and wools, intricate embroidery, and braids, so many braids in so many styles, studded with beads and gems, though none looked so grand as Erik.
He was biased, though.
Out amongst the feast goers, a small hand shot up, and started waving madly. It was little Bo, his wild red hair tamed by two short braids, freckles bright on a flushed face. He grinned, wide and gap-toothed, and waved some more, so hard that the woman beside him – it must have been his mother – took hold of his tunic and tried to pull him back down.
There was at least one person who didn’t care about Oliver’s hair or his relationship with the king.
He smiled, and waved back. Whatever happened tonight, he did have friends here in Aeretoll, most of whom sat with him at this table. And in that respect, gossip or no, he had more than he’d ever thought possible.
~*~
Feastwas not a figurative term, in this instance. Wine and ale was poured into pewter cups, and the serving men and women brought out the courses. First was a hearty soup full of sausage, leeks, and greens, warm and heavily seasoned. After was fish, pan-fried and served with wedges of lemon. Next came individual roasted quails stuffed with root vegetables and herbs, their skins dark and crispy with butter. Then savory potato pies. Oliver could manage only a few bites of each, and knew Tessa did the same – for his own part, out of nerves.
Great slabs of pink, bloody beef tenderloin were being served when the grand doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, admitting a gust of cold wind that bent the candle flames double, and a swirl of snow.
A collective gasp went up amongst the diners. Guards moved forward along the edges of the room, heading for the small knot of newcomers who stalked in shaking off clumps of snow, cheeks pink from the cold.
Leif’s cup landed on the table with a solid thump. Before Oliver could ask who had arrived, Leif said, “Ragnar,” in a tone that was both eager and cautious.
“Who?” Oliver asked.
“The leader of the Úlfheðnar. Our cousin.”
There were seven of them, all men, grouped three and three so they flanked their leader, walking into the hall like a spearpoint.
Guards heaved the massive doors closed again; the candles guttered, and then settled. The light swelled again, and Ragnar swept around the big fir tree and into full view.
It was the eyes Oliver noticed first: the same clear, shocking blue as Erik’s. Even without being told, he could have noted the familiar resemblance: the stern brow, the blade-straight nose, the regal bearing.
But where Erik’s mouth had been a flat line of contempt on Oliver’s first day here, Ragnar’s was curved into a boyish, overeager smirk. He was golden-haired, like Leif, his hair secured in a dozen small braids along his temples and the crown of his head, left loose in the back, so it looked like a windswept lion’s mane. Rather than beads and jewels, there were bones strung through it, and around his neck: a thick, intricate choker of old, dirty ivory that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He wore wolf fur of a dozen different colors over worn, serviceable leathers. A wide belt set with more bones, and heavy, fur-wrapped boots to his knees. He carried a sword on his hip, and a bow and quiver on his back; a horn hung from his belt, and his hands, as he spread his arms upon approach, bore fingerless leather gloves backed with bone spikes like ivory knuckle-dusters.
“Cousin!” he greeted, heavily-accented voice booming through the hall, undercut with suppressed laughter. “You’ve saved the best course for me, I see.”
One of his men paused as they approached the table, leaned over a young lord’s shoulder, and snatched the meat up off his plate to the sound of a spluttered protest. He ate it with his hands, heedless of the blood and juice that ran down his wrist.
