Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  He pulled the red robe up and flung it aside, removing his undershirt with it. He was just as bare as her, except for his boots, and the heavy gold chain about his neck, from which hung a medallion that winked in the lamplight.

  He was engorged. Aroused.

  “Get on the bed,” he told her.

  Ilsa backed into the bed area, then turned and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Arawn appeared at the end of the screen. “On your hands and knees.”

  Roman style. The words whispered in her mind. She didn’t know where she had learned such a crude fact, but she recognized the truth of it.

  Shaking, she turned and settled on the furs on her hands and knees.

  Arawn’s taking of her was gentle, she supposed. He used oil, which spared her some discomfort but not all. She closed her eyes and held her teeth together so they did not chatter and to hold in any sound she might make.

  When it was done and Arawn released her, she sank onto the furs and curled into a tight ball. She was cold.

  Arawn stepped back into the front half of the chamber. She could see him through the screen, putting his clothes back on. He had been breathing hard. Now his breath slowed as he fastened the belt.

  He lifted his chin to look at her through the screen. “I will give you the bed for the night, madam. Tomorrow, we will see to clearing the queen’s chamber for you. Good night.”

  As soon as the door shut behind him, Ilsa pulled the furs over her and laid trembling and wiping her eyes as they welled weak tears. She fell asleep that way, a long time later.

  Ilsa did not wake the next morning until someone closed the outer door with a thud. She sat up, bleary and aching and snatched up the furs to cover herself when she saw three servants standing in the outer room, each holding a tray. Stilicho waited behind them. His expression didn’t change when he saw her. “Meat to break your fast, my lady. Then, your chamber awaits.”

  She glanced at the high window, from where dazzling light poured to pool on the rug in front of the servants. “Already?”

  “It is late, my lady,” Stilicho said. “The household has been out and about for some time. The king didn’t want to disturb you. The meal grows cold, my lady…”

  She cleared her throat. “Everyone must turn around.”

  “My lady?” Stilicho seemed puzzled, the first time he sounded anything but completely sure of himself.

  “Turn around. I want to dress.”

  His lips parted. Then he smiled. It was a small expression, yet seemed to say much, including amusement for her quaint ways.

  Ilsa’s cheeks heated again. She had not felt as ignorant and humiliated in all her life as she had in the last day. Was this the lot of all brides taken to their husband’s domain? Or was she really such a savage that the smallest amount of civilization left her floundering?

  She kept her chin up, waiting, her gaze on Stilicho.

  He gestured with his hand and the three servants all turned their backs on her.

  “You, too,” Ilsa told Stilicho.

  He made a great show of turning about, then turned out both hands to indicate he had obeyed her command.

  Ilsa dropped the furs and scrambled across the bed and reached for the discarded linen shift. She thrust her arms into it and yanked it down over her body, then tugged her hair out of the back of it. Her hair was knotty and wild. She could do nothing about it, for she had no comb.

  Then, because the shift was so thin and the air in the chamber colder than she remembered, she bent and picked up the woolen gown and put that on, too. Then the shoes.

  “You may turn around now,” she told the four waiting on the other side of the screen. She wound the belt about her waist and knotted it the way Frida had done.

  She stepped around the screen as the servants put the trays of food and drink on the little table in front of the screen. A stool waited, a square thing with crossed legs. She perched on the stool. She was hungry, but not for this food. “It smells wrong,” she said, sniffing it.

  Alarmed, Stilicho bent over and sniffed, too. “It smells as it should.”

  She eyed the perfectly sliced layers of meat. Her stomach decided the matter. It cramped and gurgled. She lifted the edge of the top slice and tore a small piece from it and chewed.

  “My lady does not have a knife?” Stilicho asked, sounding surprised.

  She shook her head and swallowed. “My clothes were taken yesterday, at the bathhouse.”

  “Then they await you in the queen’s chamber.”

  Ilsa took another mouthful of the meat. She suspected it was mutton, yet it did not taste like any mutton she had ever eaten. There were flavors added to it that were not, she admitted, entirely unappealing. They masked the strong smell mutton often gave off.

  Ilsa brushed at the particles on the edge of the slice. “What is this?”

  “Rosemary, I believe.” Stilicho sounded disinterested. “Salt and perhaps some thyme.”

  Herbs. Expensive ones. It explained why the meat did not smell the way she thought it should. She continued eating, burning her fingers on the hot slices. One tray held a finger bowl of water, with more herbs floating in it. A folded napkin laid beside it.

  Ilsa dipped her hand in the water and rubbed the juice of the meat from the tips, then wiped them on the napkin, before reaching for the cup of mulled wine sitting on the third tray with steam rising from it. Her throat contracted as she lifted the cup and sipped.

  Stilicho did not move while she ate. He dismissed the servants, who hurried away while he remained to watch her take each bite. Now he lifted his brow. “I suppose I must believe the rest of the tale about you, now.”

  Ilsa put down the cup, her pulse jumping. “What tale?”

  “That you are the bastard daughter of King Budic. You didn’t learn those manners in a wood cutter’s hut.”

  “My mother taught me…” Ilsa pressed her lips together, halting the explanation that wanted to tumble from her. All the incomprehensible childhood lessons her mother had imparted—using a napkin, not bolting her food, keeping her fingers clean between bites… None of the other children in the village ate that way and Ilsa had resented that her mother insisted upon such silly rules. Now, though, she suspected that eating neatly was a thin hint of a different life her mother had never revealed, not even in stories and tales.

  Who was her mother? Where had she come from, before arriving at Budic’s court?

  Stilicho seemed to understand what she had not said. “Your mother’s name?”

  “Non,” Ilsa said.

  “And her parents?”

  Ilsa folded and refolded the napkin on her lap. “I don’t know.”

  Stilicho made a sound in his throat that might have been disgust at her ignorance. “If you are finished?” he added.

  Ilsa put the napkin down and got to her feet.

  “This way, my lady.” Stilicho moved over to the heavy door and opened it.

  There were many people in the antechamber and they all turned to look at the open door. They were all men, most of them armed soldiers with their helmets beneath their arms.

  Their gazes were speculative, curious, or amused.

  Ilsa dropped her chin and looked at the floor so she would not have to see their expressions. She moved out into the antechamber as Stilicho made a lane through the men with soft words.

  Ilsa glanced to her right as she moved into the room. Arawn sat behind the big desk. He was talking to the same brown-haired man he had sat beside at last night’s supper. When she looked at him, though, Arawn paused and studied her.

  Ilsa dropped her gaze once more and hurried to follow Stilicho out of the antechamber. As she moved past the men, they bowed their heads.

  To her.

  Her heart hurting with the speed and heaviness of its beat, Ilsa gripped the front of her dress and walked even faster.

  The two guards outside the door to the suite were different from the guards of last night although they stood at attention in the
same way. Stilicho ignored them. He moved across the wide corridor to a door which matched the pair the guards stood beside. He thrust the door open with the palm of his hand and stood aside.

  The queen’s chambers. Naturally, they were close at hand and accessible to the king.

  Ilsa moved inside.

  There were four women working in the room. Clearly, the chamber was not completely prepared. Ilsa was uncertain if the women were slaves or merely servants. They wore fine gowns and their hair was arranged neatly, yet they were bent over a fur rug, straightening it.

  Stilicho cleared his throat. All four jumped to their feet and turned to face Ilsa.

  “Merryn, Eseld, Rigantona, Dilas,” Stilicho said, pointing to each of them in turn. “These are your ladies and companions.”

  “Mine?” Ilsa said, startled.

  Merryn rolled her eyes. She was an older woman, perhaps even thirty years old, with an ample figure and muddy brown eyes.

  Stilicho turned to go.

  “A moment…” Ilsa said quickly.

  He turned back. “The king requires my attention, my lady.”

  “I understand…I am told the king must give permission to bathe.”

  “You bathed yesterday,” Stilicho pointed out.

  “I would like to bathe again today,” Ilsa said.

  Stilicho bowed. “Very well. I am sure the king will agree to your bathing with whatever frequency you wish. I will ensure the guards at the bathhouse are aware of the arrangement. Is there anything else?”

  Ilsa worked her hand against the wool of her gown. She had hundreds of questions yet none of them came to her right now. “No,” she said.

  Stilicho inclined his head once more. The door closed behind him, leaving Ilsa with the strangers.

  Chapter Nine

  The four women stared at Ilsa expectantly.

  Ilsa stared back. Were they…did they expect her to tell them what to do? How would she know?

  Then she remembered the way Yasmine, yesterday, had asked the slave girl, Bridget, to fetch things. The requested garments had magically appeared in the bathhouse when needed.

  “Merryn, yes?” Ilsa said.

  “Yes, my lady,” Merryn said.

  Ilsa put her hand to her hair. “I am in need of a comb. Is there one here?” She looked around the room.

  One of the other ladies stirred. “I know where one is to spare.”

  Ilsa remembered Yasmine’s tone, the way she had spoken. “Please fetch the comb…Rigantona, yes?”

  Rigantona nodded. She was even older than Merryn. Her cheeks were ruddy and round and her dark hair stranded with gray. “Wife to lord Colwyn, my lady.”

  “And who is lord Colwyn to the king?” Ilsa asked.

  “His battle commander, my lady.” Rigantona’s cheeks turned an even deeper red, although it was not shame, Ilsa realized. It was pride that flushed her face.

  Lord Colwyn was likely the brown-haired man who had sat beside the king last night.

  Her heart leaped about her chest as Ilsa said, “The comb, please, Rigantona.” It was the first time she had consciously given an order. It felt strange. She waited, her breath held, for Rigantona to laugh at her or refuse to obey.

  Instead, the lady hurried away.

  Ilsa looked about the big chamber, trying to ignore the squeezing and tightness in her chest. “My clothes I wore yesterday. Have they come back from the fullers? I was told they would be here for me.”

  Dilas, the last of the ladies and younger than all of them, yet still older than Ilsa, took a small step forward. She had soft, fine brown hair that curled in ringlets that appeared to be natural. Her brows were also fine and narrow. “I can make enquiries, my lady.”

  “If you would. I would like them back, particularly the knives—I have nothing to eat with right now.”

  “I will find them,” Dilas said and left.

  Her departure left Merryn and the tall lady, Eseld. Eseld smoothed and resettled the wide sleeve of her green gown over her arm with finnicky attention.

  It reminded Ilsa of a question. She hesitated to ask because it would betray yet again just how ignorant she was of life in a king’s household. Yet, there was no other way she might learn quickly than to ask. She hid her fist in a fold of her dress and braced herself for Merryn’s disdain. “How do I arrange fresh garments for myself?”

  “Fresh?” Merryn repeated.

  “New. Properly fitting.” She lifted the hem of the dress, which was a hand-span too long. “Worthy of being worn by the king’s new wife.”

  Merryn shrugged. “You ask for what you want, my lady.” Her tone said the answer should be obvious to anyone.

  Ilsa ignored the tone. “Then I am asking.”

  Eseld’s attention sharpened. “What is it you require, my lady? A gown? A cloak?”

  “Everything,” Ilsa said. “This gown is borrowed and the clothes I wore here are unfit for inside the house.” She held up her arm so the brown gown fell back and revealed the undershift. “I would like an underdress as fine as this one. It…the king approved of it.” Her cheeks flamed again.

  Merryn’s smile, this time, was full of heated knowledge. “Eseld,” she said, her gaze upon Ilsa. “The bolt of undyed linen you wove, the one which was darker than the rest…it was just as fine, yes?”

  “I make the best linen in the kingdom,” Eseld said, with deep pride in her voice. “The flax, though, was too old. The color was off. It was from last year’s harvest and the flax was short, although it combed out properly. I don’t know how dye would take to it.”

  “Maybe not dye it at all,” Merryn said. “If I remember it, the color was golden brown which did not suit the princesses at all. It would complement my lady’s hair, though.”

  Eseld considered and nodded. “Indeed, it would. I will fetch the bolt.”

  “I will collect the scissors and needles and thread,” Merryn added. Both the women departed, leaving Ilsa alone in the room.

  She let out her breath, relaxing. Finally, she was alone. She moved about the big room, examining it. There were three high windows along the length, the windows barred with a wooden grid. Light did not pour through these windows as it had through the window in Arawn’s chamber, for this room laid on the other side of the house. However, doves cooed just outside the windows and the shadow of vines waved over them. Both were cheerful notes.

  Unlike Arawn’s chamber, the bed in this one was not shielded by a screen. It sat frankly in the open, the head pushed against the wall beneath the windows, stealing the attention of anyone who stepped into the room. The bed was nearly as big as the king’s, although the covers were woolen blankets, not furs. There were more cushions, though.

  Because the bed took up the middle of the room, everything else gathered around it. No large space was left for other activities. A few stools sat about a single low table, beside a cupboard that matched Arawn’s in size. There was no chest.

  The walls were a soft, warm yellow that reminded Ilsa of the butter her mother made. Butter was likely not used in this great household, where food and drink was liberally doused with herbs. They would look down upon butter-eaters, Ilsa guessed.

  She liked the color of the walls, though. She pressed her hand against one and felt the chill of the stone.

  Every queen who had come before her, including Arawn’s most unfortunate former wives, had used these rooms. Perhaps, they had touched these walls just as she was. They had been princesses and grand ladies yet none of them had broken the curse.

  Ilsa examined her bare hand spread against the wall and gasped. It was her left hand. The ring was missing.

  She whirled to look at the door. The ring must have slipped off during the night. It would be in Arawn’s bed, buried in the furs. She must get it back…only, she did not want to face an antechamber full of men with their stares and their smiles.

  Rigantona pushed open the door and stepped in and waved a bone handled comb. “I found it. If you would sit, my lady, I wi
ll comb out your hair for you.”

  No one had combed her hair for her since she was a small girl. Ilsa put her hand to the bulky mess of curls. “Before you do,” she hedged, “tell me—is it unforgiveable for a woman to go into the king’s antechamber when the men are assembled there?”

  “You are the queen,” Rigantona said, her tone flat. “You can go where you want.”

  Ilsa absorbed that. “Can you go there?” She held up her bare hand. “The ring the king gave me last night…I left it in the king’s bed and would like to retrieve it before he learns of my carelessness. Can you retrieve it without everyone knowing what I have done?”

  Rigantona’s eyes were merry as she answered. “There is a much easier way to arrange it,” she said. “I will have my slave speak to Stilicho and he will arrange to have the ring brought here.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know,” Ilsa said.

  Rigantona shrugged. “They’re only slaves.”

  Ilsa cleared her throat. There was no other way for her to collect the ring. She nodded. “Very well. Could you please arrange it. Here, give me the comb before you go.”

  Rigantona gave her the comb and hurried away again.

  Ilsa sat on a stool and tackled her hair, enjoying the few solitary moments before the ladies returned. When they wandered back one by one, they settled to the business of cutting and sewing a shift for her. While they worked, they discussed the design of a gown to wear over the top. They tapped Eseld’s extended memory of what cloth had already been woven and was waiting in the large storeroom for later use.

  While they measured and draped linen against her body for exact measurements, Ilsa listened to their conversation, extracting from their chatter a good working picture of how the household operated. There were hints of responsibilities and tasks the queen was expected to take care of, including the assignment of servants and slaves, the preservation and storage of food for the winter, the entertainment of high born guests and more.

  “Not that we’ve had a high born guest to entertain in years,” Merryn added as she snipped thread.

  “Prince Uther is higher born than anyone, including the king,” Eseld pointed out. “He is a constant visitor.”