Lord of Falcon Ridge (Viking Era 4)

“How was it different?”

She was thoughtful for a long moment. Finally she said, her brows knit, “There was deep hatred this time, not just annoyance or irritation. I’m full-grown now and she can’t bear that, although I don’t understand why.”

“Who is she?”

“My father’s second wife.”

“Ah, the stepmother. There are many tales about their vanity and evil. A skald I know well tells of a stepmother who turned her stepdaughter into a pumpkin and left her in a field to rot. Luckily for the pumpkin, a child came along, kicked it, and when it moaned with pain, the child touched it just right and the stepdaughter reappeared. The child ran away.”

“That didn’t sound like a diplomat. Perhaps you are human after all.”

“Perhaps one day you will hear the full tale. Now, about your stepmother.”

“Yes, that’s what she is, and my father loves her, despite her vanity, her temper, her meanness. She’s given him four sons, you see.”

“I see.”

“You needn’t repeat any of this,” she said, her eyes narrowing in warning.

“Why should I? Surely it isn’t all that interesting. Who would I tell who would be amused or hold me in higher esteem?”

She snorted, actually snorted, and he was, for just an instant, enchanted. “There you go again, not saying anything, just asking a stupid question that doesn’t carry as much weight as a bee’s wings. I don’t think I’d be a good diplomat.”

“No, probably not,” he said in that same mild voice. “You haven’t answered my question. Why should I tell anyone about you trying to pull out your stepmother’s hair?”

That jaw of hers was stubborn as a stoat’s but nicely rounded, quite soft looking, really. “Oh, very well. You’ll find out anyway, the way you sneak around and speak so softly like you’re licking honey. She’s Queen Sira, the king’s wife. He used to call her Naphta, after my mother, but she hated it so he let her have her own name back again. That was after the birth of her first son.”

“It all sounds very complicated. I take it then that you’re the king’s daughter.”

“Yes, I’m Chessa.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“Not as unusual as the one I was given at birth. Everything changed when my father married Sira. Your name is unusual as well.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I have grown to like it.”

“You have one gold eye and one blue eye, as if the gods couldn’t decide which would suit you best. They’re really quite nice.”

“The gods or my eyes?”

She grinned up at him and shook her head.

He waited, but she said nothing more. He smiled down at her as she silently braided her hair, and thought, She never once flinched at the sight of my face.

King Sitric’s chamber was large and airy, the walls white as a dove’s back, clean and free

of spider webs. There were woven mats covering the packed earth floor. The furnishings were simple: a large box bed with several white wolfskins of great value spread over the top, a large carved mahogany chest at the foot of the bed for clothing. High-back chairs were arranged in small groupings, the king’s fashioned with finely etched chair posts as befitted his rank. He was eyeing his daughter, wondering why she’d come to his chamber unexpectedly, why she was pacing about like a young tigress. What on earth had set her off? She turned then and said, “I’m not at all certain I like him but he’s very handsome. It’s strange, but he doesn’t appear to realize it and thus puff himself up with his own conceit. Every handsome man I’ve ever met has believed himself fascinating to females. He has the look of a Viking with that golden hair of his, but I heard that he isn’t one of them. And his eyes. One is golden and the other is a deep deep blue. They’re beautiful, just as he is.”

King Sitric raised a very black brow at his daughter’s words. “Mayhap you could tell me who this handsome man is that you’re not certain you like? Someone new here at the palace? Do I know him, this man with one golden eye and one blue eye?” But now he realized who she was talking about and he waited, so surprised he couldn’t find words to say in any case.

“Of course you do, Father. He said he was Cleve of Malverne, come from Duke Rollo of Normandy. Surely he isn’t one of those Frenchmen. Why, they are all short and oily, like that minister who was here. He is tall and well made and—”

King Sitric said very carefully, “You said Cleve of Malverne? From Duke Rollo?”

“Yes, he chanced to come into the garden behind my chamber. I demanded to know who he was and he had to tell me.”

“Handsome, you think?”