“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?”
“Oh, yes, but he’s like all the rest of those mealy-mouthed diplomats who come here wanting you to do things for their masters. He’s smooth as an adder in his speech but he doesn’t really say anything.”
“Perhaps you are just a bit prejudiced, Chessa. I had hoped that by now you would have forgotten that unfortunate incident with Ragnor of York.”
Her chin went up and her father smiled. She was so very different from her mother, soft-spoken, submissive Naphta, whom he’d loved more than wisdom and nearly more than his own life as well, but not more than his small daughter’s life.
He hadn’t sought to temper his daughter’s forthrightness or her blunt candor. No, he’d had to leave her weapons so she could stand toe to toe with his witch of a second wife, who needed more discipline than he ever managed to mete out to her. She always distracted him with that lithe body of hers and her passion. By all the gods, her passion made him mad with lust even now after eight years. But he had to control her, for she was a witch, and he knew that she detested Chessa, seeing her as a threat, which was ridiculous.
“I have forgotten Ragnor, Father. He was naught but a foolish boy. Indeed, I gained my revenge on him, then spit his name into the dust. He has been gone from my mind for a long time now.”
“Don’t lie, Eze. You still smart from the wounds. He hurt you with his talk of everlasting adoration.”
“You haven’t called me Eze in a very long time.”
“It’s true, you’re really more Chessa to me now than Eze. It just slipped off my tongue. You still don’t mind your name, do you? You know I had to change it. As you became older Eze sounded more and more strange in the court. People remarked on it so I changed it to Chessa, a long-ago Irish heroine.”
“Just as Naphta sounded strange?”
He stiffened. “Aye, if you will. But we are not speaking of your stepmother.”
“Thank Freya for that,” she said, then fell silent. She rarely digressed. Once focused, she usually never wavered. He was content to wait. She said at last, “It’s true, Father. I don’t think often of Ragnor. I can’t believe I was so gullible that I actually believed his lies. But I did gain revenge on him, that is—oh—”
This was interesting. This closemouthed daughter of his rarely let anything slip. He saw that she was chagrined. “What did you do, Chessa?”
“You don’t really wish to know, do you?”
“What did you do, Chessa?”
“I ground up malle leaves with some fist root and added just a touch of ginger to make it tasty. Ragnor loves ginger. I heard that he puked up his guts for a good three days.”
He laughed, he couldn’t help himself. Thank the gods she hadn’t killed the officious bastard. He wouldn’t put it past her. But no, she’d exercised restraint, a quality her stepmother couldn’t seem to master. She’d grown up well, he’d seen to it. He was proud of her. She learned from mistakes and never, to his knowledge, repeated them. It was a pity she was only a woman.
