‘As you wish.’ Svend inclined his head and stepped down from the dais, borrowing a lyre from one of the musicians. ‘I’ll play, but I don’t sing.’
Aediva knotted her hands in her lap as he strode to the centre of the hall. If he were playing for her, then silence would be more appropriate. It certainly wouldn’t be a love song.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then started to run his fingers lightly over the strings, skilful as a weaver at his spindle. Aediva listened, spellbound. She’d never imagined him caring fo
r pursuits such as music. It seemed so unexpected and incongruous, his warrior hands too big for such a small instrument, but he looked perfectly at ease. It was a ballad of some kind—a tune she didn’t recognise—bittersweet and soulful.
‘He’s a fine musician.’ FitzOsbern leaned conspiratorially on the arm of her chair, too close for comfort. ‘You’re lucky to have such a champion. I only hope that you’re worth it.’
Worth it? She stared at the Earl, perplexed. Worth what? The words implied that Svend had lost something by marrying her, but that didn’t make sense. He had the reward he’d always wanted and more. That was the reason he’d married her. She was the one who’d been threatened with the loss of her home. As far as she could see he hadn’t sacrificed anything.
‘Of course,’ FitzOsbern continued, ‘I have to wonder why you left your sister so soon after her birthing.’
She started, caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject. The Earl’s tone was pleasant, but his words made her scalp tingle.
‘My message was urgent.’
‘And yet Svend could have delivered it himself.’
‘There were things my sister wanted me to explain in person.’
‘Such as why she left?’ He raised his eyebrows, his expression shifting menacingly. ‘Strange...de Quincey seems no wiser about that. But keep trying, Lady Aediva, you might still convince me.’
‘Convince you?’ She struggled to keep her voice calm.
Green eyes narrowed like daggers, pinning her to the spot. ‘Normally I don’t tolerate my men hiding things from me, but then some men are more useful than others. I won’t ask what you’re really doing here, but Svend has a job to do. If he fails me I’ll know who to blame.’
Aediva inhaled sharply. There was no mistaking the threat behind his words. Apparently Svend and de Quincey hadn’t been as convincing as they’d thought. FitzOsbern suspected her of something, even if he didn’t know what.
A round of applause interrupted them and she turned to find Svend watching her. His song had drawn to a close without her noticing, and his gaze was moving suspiciously between her and the Earl. She had the distinct impression that he hadn’t missed so much as a glance of their exchange.
‘Excellent!’ The Earl cheered. ‘Now for the bride’s turn! I’ve heard a great deal about Saxon music. Perhaps you would oblige me, Lady Aediva?’
She felt her stomach lurch. How could he expect her to sing with his threat still roaring in her ears? What could she possibly sing? Bad enough to be made a spectacle for so many Normans—now she was expected to entertain them as well? Her throat had never felt so dry. Every eye in the room was on her and she couldn’t remember so much as a child’s rhyme.
Slowly she descended from the dais, stalling for time as she searched her memory for a song, a melody—anything to end the torturous silence. Svend brushed past her and for a fleeting moment she felt his hand grasp hers reassuringly. Then he was gone and her mind was an ever greater blank, coherent thought banished by the unexpected thrill of his touch.
What did that mean?
‘It seems Saxon music is overrated,’ the Earl murmured, sending a ripple of laughter around the tables.
Desperately she looked towards Svend, but he wasn’t laughing. He was looking straight at her, his gaze sharp and intent, as if he were willing her on, trying to send her words.
She opened her mouth and let an old Saxon love song pour through her lips, the words emerging even before she knew what she was singing—words she hadn’t known she remembered—the notes soaring and dropping in a tale of unrequited love and heartache. It was a song she’d never truly thought about, never understood until now.
She closed her eyes, fighting the bitter sting of tears. The last time she’d heard the song had been at Cille’s wedding, long before the Conquest, when the Saxon world had seemed so strong and unchangeable. Now everything was so different she almost wished that she hadn’t remembered it. The words, the memory—they all meant too much.
She let the last note linger, opening her eyes at last to a hall held still and silent, as if gripped by some enchantment. Svend’s gaze was still on her, his eyes glowing with something more than appreciation, as if he felt and understood the song too. As if he understood her.
‘A sad song for a bride,’ the Earl commented drily, and the spell was broken.
‘Dancing!’ someone called, and she found herself swallowed up in a sea of couples, Svend’s face vanishing behind them.
Quickly she wiped her tears on her sleeve and made for the door. The urge to escape the hall was becoming unbearable. She needed some air...just a few minutes alone to recover. Surely no one would notice if she stepped outside for a moment?
‘Care to dance?’
Sir Hugh bowed unsteadily before her, his brown eyes sparkling with wine, and she shook her head, wishing she could simply push past him. If she didn’t get out of there soon she would scream!