Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles #1) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,2

and bumper crops; of sleek horses, and fat pigs, and cows that came lowing every evening, bells chiming across the pastures, audible on a clear spring night even from the ramparts of Drake Hold. He wrote about the ducks, just a little, because he had to; the constant Vs flapping noisily overhead, off for a fresh pond that gleamed like glass.

Perhaps, if he could write the letter again, he would tone it down a bit.

But. From the pastoral beauty of Drakewell, he’d moved on to talk gently of an old alliance, a meeting long past, between his own grandfather and King Erik’s father. And then, years later, between a young King Erik and Oliver’s Uncle William. No treaties had been signed, but an understanding had been reached, hands clasped in friendship over a brazier in a tent, while snow fell in silent profusion outside. He spoke of the war that was on now, the uncertain stalemate. Of advantages, opportunities for trade.

Spoke lastly of his cousin Tessa’s gentle nature and rosy beauty. Of her readiness and willingness to pledge herself to a strong husband.

It took up three pages, all told.

The reply, which had come several weeks later, had said only:

Come and bring the girl. We shall talk.

Oliver had no idea what sort of welcome awaited them, as the barge pushed into the crowded harbor, and drew slowly in to dock.

Despite the hard chill and the ice on the water, the snow on the banks turned to sticky mud along the footpaths, the harbor bustled. Sailors called to dockhands; great booms lowered nets full of crates down onto ice-slick boards. In the cacophony, Oliver caught bits of song, angry curses, friendly ribbing, and hearty laughter. He recognized flags and sail shapes from all over the South, even, he noted with a lurch, the star-emblazoned banners of the King of Aquitania, his king, technically. One with no heir, and losing ground in every way that mattered to the Sels from the west.

The air smelled of frost, and fish, and the deep breaths he took of it did nothing to quell his nerves.

Tessa wasn’t doing much better, he didn’t think, judging by her wan complexion and the way she held a gloved hand to her throat, as if she was choking.

The bargemen threw out ropes. “This is where you get off, your lordship,” one of them called.

“Yes, yes, we’re coming.” He took his cousin’s elbow. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head, and swallowed with difficulty. Forced a smile. “There’s nothing for it, is there?”

“No, darling.” He smiled back, and hoped she could take at least some measure of comfort from it. “There’s not.”

She looped her arm through his, and together they walked up to the makeshift gangplank the crew had fashioned of a few loose boards. They were slick and shiny with ice, as was the dock beyond, but the porters who’d come to collect their trunks didn’t seem to be troubled by this – probably thanks to the metal cleats Oliver glimpsed strapped over their boots.

He and Tessa, though, despite the heavy wool and fur cloaks they’d purchased before their trip, wore boots with soft, leather soles. Please don’t let us fall, he prayed, and took the first step.

He managed all five steps across the plank, Tessa clutching at him the whole time. Then they hit the dock, and a patch of invisible ice, and Oliver’s right foot slipped out from under him.

“Oh, bollocks–”

A hand grabbed his free arm. A large hand – a strong one. Somehow, miraculously, he didn’t fall and drag his poor cousin down with him. He was picked up, and set back on his feet, and a deep voice with an unfamiliar accent said, “You all right there, lad?”

He glanced up, startled, a little afraid, he could admit, and laid eyes on the largest man he’d ever seen. Tall, and broad-shouldered, and draped in layers of fur that made him look more bear than man, his hair a long, wild tangle, save for where it was braided down the sides, and, at his temples, shaved in long, thin lines.

“Shit,” Oliver said, before he could think better of it.

The man grinned, revealing one gold canine tooth. “Well. There’s a welcome.”

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t–”

“Are you from Drakewell? The Drakes?”

“I…”

“I am Tessa Drake,” Tessa said. “Lord William’s daughter. And this is my cousin, Oliver.”

Other long-haired, fur-clad men waited behind the giant holding Oliver, he saw. All with braids, and beards, and heavy, embroidered cloaks. All of them watching with amusement