“The binding ceremony cannot come too soon for me,” Sidroc added, “but the most important thing is that she will wed me now. A betrothal is as binding as the actual wedding vows.”
“Or so you think,” Drifa said, stepping out from the corridor where she had been standing, holding a pottery jug of mead, which she’d brought to replenish their supply. Her heart was nigh breaking, but she must get through these next few moments before letting loose her tears.
“Drifa!” Sidroc said with alarm, staring back at her over his shoulder.
And so you should be alarmed, you lying, lecherous lout.
He stood and approached her.
She backed up and held up one of her hands to halt his progress. “There will be no wedding.”
“I can explain.”
She shook her head. “You thought to wed me and shed me, all in one swoop. What a foolish maid you must think me.”
“I can explain,” he repeated.
“I ne’er expected love from you,” Drifa said, hoping the twitch at the side of her mouth did not betray her foolish dreams, “but you said you wanted me above all others.”
“I do.” But then he dug his own grave, so to speak, when he tried to jest, “The only other candidate at the moment is Brunhilda of Lade.”
Drifa’s heart shriveled. Brunhilda was forty if she was a day and weighed as much as a warhorse. And Sidroc views me in the same way. Even if he is jesting, I am not amused. “Go! Leave Stoneheim and ne’er let me see your devious face again.”
“We would suit, Drifa. You know we would.”
She raised her chin haughtily. “Pigs will fly afore I accept you now.”
“Is this a game you played with all your other suitors? Led them on to believe you will wed. Then cut off your favors at the last moment.”
“Ooooh, do not try to lay the blame for this travesty on me.”
“Travesty, is it?” He almost grinned.
The troll!
“You are a passionate woman, Drifa,” Sidroc said, trying a different tack. “We would both benefit from this union.”
I ne’er was before. Passionate, that is. And I ne’er will be again. Look what it has led me to. “You would swive me for coin?” she jeered. “What kind of man would do that?”
“A man who is desperate.”
Does he imply that only a man who is desperate would want me? And why is he desperate? It mattered not. He was a nithing, withholding a swiving as if that was some grand prize. Implying that she was panting after him like a randy she-goat. “Stay away from me, you mangy dog,” she warned as he drew closer.
He laughed.
Big mistake, that!
Before he could anticipate her next action, she raised the pitcher high with both hands and walloped him over the head. Not only did she knock him over, with mead flying everywhere, but the back of his head struck the edge of the bench on the way down. He landed on the rushes like a fallen oak, eyes closed.
“Oh my gods! I’ve killed the man I love ... I mean, the man I hate ... I mean, help!”
It was huge, as far as side effects went ...
When Sidroc awakened, his skull ached as if it had been cracked open in the back, and his brain was seeping out. Slowly, so as not to jar his head and increase the pain, he stared about the small chamber where he was lying on a pallet.
He felt as weak as boar piss and could swear his stomach was shrunken inward. Yea, a quick scan of his upper body with his fingertips found his ribs protruding. He frowned with confusion. How could he have lost so much weight in such a short—
“You’re alive!” Finn jumped up from the chair where he had been sitting, and Sidroc put up his hands to ward him off. He did not think he could withstand a hug ... if, indeed, that was what Finn had intended.