“I did. It occurs to me I have been a taciturn ass when it comes to plans for the kingdom. You were right to be angry with me. I should have included you in the meetings. You are my queen, and it is only right that you be a part of everything.”
“Thank you,” Bryn replied stiffly. The steel in her spine eased.
Sigurd narrowed his eyes. The man never apologized, no matter the perceived slight or misdeed levied against him. Worse, Sigurd couldn’t tell if Brynhildr was falling for the cretin’s charming manner.
“I have a gift for you, Brynhildr. It is my hope you will take it, with my apologies. I know things have been strained between us of late and I wish to make amends. The time apart has given me much opportunity to think, time to consider my past actions and the hurt I have caused.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It is. Please.” He clapped his hands and two thralls entered bearing a large chest. They set the gleaming trunk down where directed and opened the lid, revealing the gift inside.
Sigurd recognized hesitation in her face, but the king seemed at ease, even eager. Bryn relented and stepped over, kneeling beside the trunk. She lifted the molded leather cuirass first, running her fingers over the swirling knotwork design. Once she set it carefully aside, she removed the other pieces from a soft bed of jade-green silk. Even Sigurd had to admit the craftsmanship was some of the best he’d seen.
“Try it on, my love. I gave them your exact measurements. This armor is for you and no one else.”
“I don’t see Hildran’s mark on these.”
“I did not give the commission to Hildran. I wanted this gift to be special, as well as a surprise. You’d have seen him crafting it, as often as you go to watch him work.”
When Gunnar clapped again, two thralls moved in to assist Bryn. Beside him, Lagertha pressed her lips into a thin line, distaste readily apparent on her youthful features. He imagined he wore a matching expression. How poorly they failed to disguise their dislike of the king.
“What do you think?” Bryn called, turning to address them both while the thralls strapped on her greaves.
“It suits you nicely,” Lagertha replied. “Of course, we will need to see how it holds up in battle. Perhaps a bout later.”
“Yes, I need to test Sigurd again,” she said, eyes twinkling when she turned her gaze on him. He resisted the urge to puff out his chest, aware of the king’s scrutiny. He bowed instead, with an elegant flourish that was a holdover from his noble Eislandic heritage, knowing it drove Gunnar mad.
“At your convenience, my queen.”
Bryn grinned back at him, eyes twinkling with mirth. She thought it was charming, and they’d laughed in the past about Gunnar’s disdain for anything related to his former home.
The thralls finished their work and backed away, while another pair stepped forward with a tall mirror. Bryn admired herself, turning back and forth as the armor flashed gold and silver in the light slanting through the windows.
“It’s beautiful,” Bryn murmured. She glanced up at the king, who stood there with a beatific smile on his face.
Sigurd had never wanted to punch a man in the mouth as much as he did at that moment.
Just a moment ago, his Brynhildr had been smiling at him, and now those same beautiful blue eyes were directing a truly majestic smile at Sigurd’s most hated enemy.
“You are beautiful, and worthy of a toast.” Gunnar snapped his fingers. At that, an older man bearing a silver tray, bottle, and two fine goblets approached. The king filled both and held one glass out to his wife.
“Do you remember this vintage?” he asked.
Recognition sparked in Bryn’s eyes. “I do. It was gifted to us when we united the southlands.”
“Let us drink, and one day remember this moment as fondly as I remember that evening. You were never more beautiful than you were that eve, with the blood of our enemies on your shield. To us, my beloved, and a bright future as rulers of this proud kingdom. I vow to never keep you in the dark again, and to work alongside you each day forward. I have been a fool, a—”
“Brother,” Frode called from the entry. “A moment of your time.”
“Can’t you see I’m having a moment with my wife?” Gunnar barked at the obnoxious weasel. Disregarding the intimate scene, Frode crossed the room to him and shattered the newfound intimacy.
At no time did Sigurd ever anticipate he’d find a moment to appreciate the foul little cockroach. Bryn rolled her eyes and raised the glass to her lips without waiting for Gunnar to join her. She took a long gulp of it, sighed, and drained the rest.
Good. She wasn’t impressed with him or his brother. They’d annoyed her. Sigurd could read her mannerisms from a mile away.
“Could this not wait?” Gunnar hissed at his brother.
“It could not.” The two spoke in quieter voices while the servant refilled Bryn’s glass.
Sunlight caught the emeralds and jade stones accenting the armor and turned the gems radiant. As she continued to sip, she admired her reflection, while Sigurd gazed, and thought if ever there was a moment he wanted to commit flawlessly to his memory, it was then. Bryn bathed in sunlight with the glint of it on her hair, the jewels in her armor like green fire.
Then the glass tipped from her fingers, and she staggered back one step.
“Brynhildr?” he whispered, catching her by one arm.
“Bryn?” the king called.
“Something is…something is wrong,” Bryn whispered. “Sigurd, help me.”
“My queen?” Lagertha asked, at her other side in an instant.
Pale and gasping, Bryn clutched a hand over her heart as she doubled over. “My chest. Something—it burns. I…” A low, agonized groan fell from her lips, and then she tumbled forward.
“Brynhildr!” He caught her and laid her limp form gently on the floor, heart racing and palms clammy. Lagertha knelt beside them and ran frantic hands over Bryn’s face and neck, while the king stood over them. “Brynhildr, answer me!”
“My queen,” Lagertha said, with fervent pleading in her voice, “what’s wrong? Say something, Bryn. Say anything, please.”
“Brynhildr, please no,” Sigurd begged, crushed by the weight of his helplessness. He was no healer, unskilled in anything beyond basic medical aid. “Gods, don’t do this.” Don’t leave me. Then he thought, with equal desperation, Please don’t take her. To any god who listens, please do not take her. This cannot be her time. So much more awaits her. She has work left to do in this world.
“She’s not breathing,” Sigurd.
“What? Impossible,” Gunnar exclaimed.
“It’s true, my king,” Lagertha whispered. She released a shaky breath and met Sigurd’s gaze. “She’s dead.”
“No…” Sigurd shook his head and drew Bryn’s head into his lap. “No, she can’t be. She can’t be gone. She was just…” Only a moment ago she’d been walking and talking with such fire in her eyes.
“It was him!” Frode shouted, pointing a long white finger at the thrall who had served the wine.
“Me? But, my lord, I’ve done nothing.”
“Treacherous Eislandic dog,” Gunnar snarled, flinging aside his glass of tainted wine. “You poisoned my wife.”