The Heart of a Queen (A Historical Romance)

Chapter 34

The feast that night was exceptional because for once, lords, soldiers, and commoners all ate together in the great hall. Brienna saw Llewellyn in the midst of some angry-looking Scots, but she set aside her concern; if this week had taught her anything, it was that Scottish lords always looked angry.

Ruarc and Donnall were together and in the company of an English lord, and Brienna could see that Ruarc was trying very hard to hold his temper at something the man was saying. Isobel, she saw, was sitting quietly at the very edge of the room with Moira by her side. Lasair and Madoc had apparently taken her suggestion to heart and were nowhere to be seen.

She spotted Ulf clomping through the rows with a plate piled high with food and decided to seek him out as company. They ended up sitting at a table in the middle of a row of soldiers that hailed from the armies of every personage in attendance.

Customarily, these men would have held their tongues in the presence of a lady, but the festive air of the occasion had infested them and they were as bold as if they were sitting at camp around a fire the night before a bloody battle. Plus, Brienna's small frame was overshadowed by Ulf's massive one, and the big Viking acted as a sort of camouflage.

Since leaving Lasair, Brienna felt her future closing in on her like a shroud being sewn shut over a corpse. Donnall had left her alone since the awkward kiss in her room. She sensed that he had fulfilled some need he had of feeling ownership of her with that kiss, and so could suspend his attentions until after they were married and she was legally his, as well.

But it was also it as if he knew that, pushed too far, she would be severed from the sense of duty that kept her in his clutches and call off the engagement. And if that was the case, then he knew that she did not desire him, and was marrying him because she felt she had to. What kind of a man would be satisfied with such a union as that?

From where she sat, her eyes kept straying over to him, the same way one's tongue always seeks out a sore tooth, unable to leave the source of anguish alone. His wispy hair must have been tickling him, for he scratched constantly at his ear. His expression was so changeable; first he smiled, then composed his face into one of thoughtful listening, then grew exasperated as those around him spoke, clearly eager to break in with his own opinion. In a way he reminded Brienna of herself, before she came to Gwynedd and learned to temper her emotions.

Maybe he's not really that bad, Brienna thought in desperation. There's a chance that had I never met Llewellyn, and didn't have him to compare him to, Donnall would seem a magnificent catch. He is very tall—don't women like that? She continued to scrutinize him for good qualities across the room, as if she could convince herself of his appeal.

So distracted by this was she that she was only paying half her attention to the conversation happening around her; her focus was recaptured when Ulf nudged her arm with his elbow. She shot him an irritable glance, but he held her eye and tipped his head at the two soldiers seated opposite them.

"She's a lovely lass, but she'll have nought to do with me," a man with a scar over his jaw was saying.

For the benefit of his seat mate, a blond Scot with a rusty beard, he pointed at one of the kitchen maids, who was refreshing the tables with full jugs of ale.

"Very bonny," the Scot nodded in appreciation.

Brienna rolled her eyes, planning to lose herself in misery again. There was nothing unique or interesting about soldiers commiserating over women. Plus, both men were clearly enjoying the free-flowing spirits that evening, and wobbled like spinning tops in their seats.

"Ay, but we'll be back soon enough, and she might fancy me more then," the man with the scar said.

The Scot belched and pounded his chest heartily. "Is that so? And why's that?" he slurred.

"A woman loves a man who's swelling with the victory of battle," the man said, clutching his groin to drive home his point.

"What battle? We're here for peace," the Scot spat out the word peace like a bit of gristle that had stuck in his teeth. Soldiers, who made their living off the endless turmoil between kingdoms, thought very little of peace.

"Not for long," the man assured his new friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. "My lord plans to make a show of friendship here, and then, when all is calm, press forth with his army to seize the land his family feels they are owed. Next they will turn on Gwynedd, and when that happens, that little maid will be bent over my lap." He mimed spanking a phantom woman's behind. "To the victor," he licked his lips, "go the spoils."

Reddening, Brienna looked at Ulf, confused as to why he would want her to overhear such crude talk. When the Viking saw that she didn't understand, he bent his head and murmured, "With the army of Leinster," while discreetly jabbing his fork in the direction of the man with the scar.

All of a sudden Brienna could care less about the crudeness of the soldier's talk; the content of his speech was far more serious. If he was a soldier for Leinster, then the lord he mentioned was Donnall, and it was the friendship between himself, her family, and Llewellyn that he was faking. The land his family felt they were owed was Connaught, and after he'd ripped it out of her father's hands, he would be coming for Llewellyn's kingdom, if what this soldier said held an ounce of truth.