“Prince Uther visits for entertainment the queen cannot provide,” Dilas said, and giggled. The other three smiled.
Ilsa said nothing. In her short experience so far, she had not found the act that Uther clearly considered so entertaining to be remotely pleasurable. Perhaps only men enjoyed it?
The day passed while she listened and thought, and the women worked. No one came to the room but slaves and Stilicho. The slaves brought food and drink—usually wine, for water was limited.
When the sun shone directly through the high windows, which told Ilsa it was low in the western sky, she stirred and told Merryn she wanted to bathe. The four women escorted Ilsa to the bathhouse, along with two guards who stood at the far end of the wide corridor between the queen’s chambers and the king’s. The guards swept up alongside the group of women without comment.
The four women were clearly friends, for they undressed without hesitation, still chatting happily. Their husbands, Ilsa had learned, all were high-ranking members of Arawn’s staff.
Ilsa relaxed in the heated air of the caldarium and closed her eyes. After some time had passed, she heard a cough nearby and opened her eyes. A woman stood before her. A slave, she guessed, for her hair was short and she wore a tunic and no shoes. The woman lifted the jar of oil in her hand. The other hand held the silver implement Yasmine had used yesterday.
“I have a bench ready for you, my lady,” the woman said and waved farther along the side of the pool.
One bench was laid with a sheet. Ilsa realized she was expected to lie on the sheet while the slave oiled and scraped her skin. She moved over to the bench and laid down on it. Here, at least, she could be alone as much as it seemed possible for a queen to be.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes again.
Bathing became her favorite part of the day. The next twelve days were repeats of the first, except for one critical difference. After supper, Ilsa was escorted by her ladies to her own chamber, where they undressed her and left her in the big bed to await her husband.
Arawn would arrive shortly after that. Their coupling was silent and swift and afterwards he would leave without comment.
Afterward, Ilsa would lie in the dark, her heart heavy and her eyes dry, until sleep claimed her.
She slept late because of her long vigils, which made the days shorter than ever. Even so, time stretched endlessly. Ilsa did not move out of her chamber except to bathe and to join the household in the triclinium for supper, after which, she returned to the chamber.
Every second day, Stilicho would ask for permission to enter and would give Ilsa a report on the status of the household. It took her many days to realize Stilicho managed most of the responsibilities that were properly the queen’s. His reports to her were formalities. He required no decisions from her.
One of the earliest of his reports brought news that cheered Ilsa immensely. He had stroked his beard and said, “I have received a message from your…parents.” He glanced at the four women listening to every word as they sewed. “Your…um…father.”
Ilsa nodded. “You refer to Pryce?”
“I do.”
“He is my father,” Ilsa said. “He raised me. King Budic merely supplied the seed that made me.”
Stilicho’s gaze met hers. Something other than his usual polite disdain showed in his eyes. “An apt distinction.” He inclined his head. “Your father and mother are both recovered from their illness. They have food and water aplenty and know of your changed status.”
Relief touched her. “Then the king did send people to look after them…”
“He said he would,” Stilicho said, the stiff tone back.
“Yes, only…” She bit her lip. “I thought he had forgotten. He said nothing.” In fact, Arawn had spoken to her less than many others in the household, even those who only saw her in the evenings.
“When a king gives his word, it is never broken,” Stilicho said, his tone one of reprimand.
“Unless the king’s name is Vortigern,” Merryn added, her eyes on her stitching.
“Or Hengist,” Dilas added.
“Hengist is a war chief. Saxons don’t have kings.”
Stilicho rolled his eyes and finished his report. Her parents were offered accommodation in the king’s house and had refused, as Ilsa had guessed they would. They had been invited to visit Lorient and their daughter whenever they wished. An escort would be arranged for them, although her mother had declined that offer, too.
Ilsa looked around the grand chamber and the fine appointments. If Budic lived as urbanely as this, then her mother would know exactly how different life here was from her quiet life in the cottage. Ilsa understood why her mother had refused to visit. “Perhaps it might be better if I were to visit them,” she told Stilicho.
He lifted a brow. “Do give me three days’ notice to arrange such a visit,” he said. “I would need to secure the king’s permission and arrange a proper escort…”
Ilsa pressed her teeth together. “I see,” she said. “When I am moved to visit, I will be sure to let you know.”
During the daylight hours, Ilsa remained in her chamber. Nothing outside the chamber required her attendance. No one asked for her. No one visited. The four women, whom she had difficulty thinking of as “her” women, spent the hours sewing garments for her that at least gave her alternatives to wear.
She arranged for the original underdress and brown gown to be returned to Elaine. The return elicited no response.
The princesses did not talk to her at supper, either, even though they sat at the same table as their brother. They were polite if Ilsa spoke to them directly yet made no attempt to engage her in conversation. Sallies Ilsa made always died after an exchange or two.
The princesses’ remoteness was of a pattern that matched everyone in the household. Everyone was polite. Everyone was pleasant and attentive when Ilsa spoke to them. Once the conversation was done, they disengaged and moved on as if their day had never been interrupted. It was puzzling and isolating.
On the tenth day, Ilsa woke to find her courses had returned, forcing her to ask the ladies for rags and supplies to deal with them.
After, the four women sat about the chamber, sewing, their conversation absent. It was as if they were stirring themselves to speak in between heavy thoughts in order to maintain a semblance of normality.
At supper just as little conversation took place. Arawn was withdrawn and drank heavily and Ilsa caught his gaze upon her, dark and narrow.
Her heart sank. The entire household knew of her state! They knew she was not with child this month. Were they blaming her for the lack?
She returned to her chamber with the women. They did not undress her as usual, but left her in her shift and turned out the lamp usually left burning for Arawn to find his way across the room. Ilsa shivered beneath the blankets, feeling the weight of disapproval press down upon her.
The next day, the quietness of the household was unbearable. Ilsa sent the women back to their quarters well before supper. She did not bathe and did not attend supper or ask for food to be sent. Instead, she extinguished the lamp and climbed into the bed. The days already grew darker. She watched the last of the sunlight climb up the wall as the sun dipped down below the window, wondering what she could do to make amends.
So wondering, she slept, more exhausted than a woman who had not moved out of her bedchamber deserved to be.
Ilsa woke to the sound of larks and the cold fresh scent of dawn. Through the lattice in the windows she could see orange and red sky.
It had been too long since she walked among the trees as the sun rose. Abruptly, she ached for that freedom. She threw the covers aside and opened the cupboard where her growing wardrobe was stored. At the bottom, in the corner, were her hunting clothes.
She snatched them up and dressed, her heart thrumming. It felt good to be moving, to have something to do, even if it was merely walking through trees. Her bow was propped against the cupboard, unstrung an
d unnoticed by everyone, for the bag of arrows covered it and the bag looked innocent, too.
She braided her hair and pushed it down her tunic, donned the soft cap and held the bow and arrows under her cloak. She nearly skipped down the corridor. It would be impossible to lose her way in the town, for the road was arrow-straight from the king’s house to the town gates. From there, she could cross the little river, the Scorff, and be among the trees growing up against the north bank of the river.
It did not take as long as she thought it should to reach the river. The journey to Lorient from the ferry had seemed longer. Energy raced through her. A little more of it and she would fly to the trees, she suspected.
The ferryman paid her no heed at all, except to nod when she requested passage. “You’re the first abroad this morning, lad. No one will come for an age yet. Hop in,” he said, his tone friendly. “You’re off to hunt?” he added as he poled the barge out into the water.
“If I see something,” Ilsa told him. “I wanted to see the sun rise and smell the crispness in the air. It smells as though snow may be coming.”
“Not for weeks yet, if we get snow at all this year,” he replied. “This here is just winter clearing its throat.”
She hid her disappointment. There had not been snow for three winters, of course.
It will be your fault if there is no snow this winter.
She pushed the thought away and turned her face up to the morning sun. It was warm against her skin.
The barge grounded on the shingles and she hurried up the road toward the trees she could see above. Then she was among them, their shadows over her. Astringent pine, the rot of leaf litter and animal droppings rose around her.
Somewhere north of her, a hawk shrieked as it dove upon prey.
Ilsa turned to place the direction, alerted. It had been a long time since she had eaten a hawk. Her mouth watered at the memory of the tender pale flesh, unadorned by any herbs or dressing except for butter and a little salt.
She strung her bow and loosened an arrow in the bag, so she could withdraw it without hinderance. Then she selected her direction and silently moved through the trees, listening hard.
The hawk had missed its target the first time she heard it, for it moved ahead of her. Once she caught sight of it above the trees, gliding as it hunted for another target. It was too far away from her to try with the bow although her direction was good. She moved deeper into the trees, intent on gaining on the bird.
As she drew closer, she pulled an arrow and nocked it and kept the bow in front of her, her fingers on the string, ready to pull and loose.
She stepped out into a clear section among the trees. A cart track wound about the trees.
Ilsa smiled. It was a wood-cutter’s track, the wagon wheels leaving a trace she recognized. She stood in the middle of the track, her hearing extended. If the hawk was soaring once more, he might pass over the space between the trees, giving her a clear shot. She raised the bow, the tip of the arrow tracing an invisible line in the sky between the trees. She waited.
To her left, she heard the hawk’s wings flap as it gained height, looking for hot air to give it lift so it could glide while watching for prey. In a heartbeat or two, it would appear.
She pulled back on the string and held her breath.
The hawk hove into view, high up. She drew to the full extent of her strength and let the arrow fly. At the same moment, horsemen cantered around the bend in the cutter’s track—a dozen of them, at least.
When they saw her, one pointed and cried out. Abruptly, the troop broke into a gallop, making the ground thunder beneath her feet.
Ilsa tried to follow the arrow and the hawk, only the need to get out of the way of galloping horses was pulling her focus. She sighed and stepped out of the track and up against the trunk of the nearest oak for protection. She waited for them to pass while bending around the trunk to spot the hawk. Even though she had not seen it strike, Ilsa knew in her heart she had hit the bird. Once the horsemen were past, she would have to trace back and find it.
Only, the horsemen didn’t pass. They slowed as they neared her, then stopped in front of her. They were armed soldiers.
Arawn pushed through them, his stallion snorting and pawing the air. Fury made his face work and his lips to thin. “What in the name of the gods do you think you are doing out here?”
Chapter Ten
Arawn ordered his men to divide and move farther along the track in both directions, far enough to be out of earshot while still guarding them. He climbed from his stallion’s back and tied the reins to the lowest branch on the oak Ilsa stood beside, his hands moving in sharp, hard motions.
Ilsa waited, puzzled by Arawn’s anger and a little afraid of it, yet more than half her attention was upon the hawk. Had it fallen? Would someone else find it? She wanted her arrow back, at least. In the back of her mind, she regretted the loss of the meal she had been anticipating.
“Can someone at least find the hawk I brought down?” she asked him.
Arawn swung to face her, his face working. “A hawk?” he repeated.
“I shot the hawk just as your men saw me. It will be that way—a quarter mile, no more.” She pointed.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction she had pointed. “Impossible,” he said.
“It will be there,” she said, keeping her voice steady, even though she wasn’t certain it would be, for she hadn’t seen her arrow strike home.
Arawn considered her for a moment. He let out a deep, gusty sigh and whistled. A soldier cantered down the track to where Arawn stood in the middle.
“Look for a hawk with an arrow through it. That way, a quarter mile,” Arawn said.
The guard looked over his shoulder as Arawn had done. “My lord?” he said, sounding both amused and disbelieving.
“Just look for it,” Arawn snapped.
“Yes, my lord.” He wheeled his horse about. Ilsa listened to it thud down the track, her heart matching the beats of the hooves.
Arawn was studying her, his thick black brows drawn together. “You cannot wander the land alone the way you are used to,” he said, his tone flat. “You are a queen, now.”
“A queen or a prisoner?” she said. “For they appear the same.”
His jaw rippled. He was very angry, Ilsa realized. Her belly tightened. His anger was out of proportion to the minor sin of leaving the town unescorted. “I know how to take care of myself,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I have done so for a long time.”
“No, you do not understand,” Arawn said, pressing the side of his fist into his other gauntleted hand. “It is not only wild boars and thieves who threaten you here. Do you know what would happen to you if a man…if anyone realized who you are? The ferryman? The men of the village you must have circled around to get here?”
Ilsa licked her lips. “There is a reason I dress this way,” she said. She still didn’t understand the exact reasons for his anger yet her wariness grew.
“Uther saw through your disguise,” Arawn shot back. “Any astute man with half an eye would! I will not have it, Ilsa, do you hear? I will not allow you to risk yourself this way! It is too important! You must live. You must thrive or…” His hands flexed and closed.
“Or you will be less one wife and have to start again?” she snapped.
“Yes!” he cried.
Coldness trickled through her. Her head hurt. “I see,” she said. “It is not a coincidence everyone in your household minimizes how much they speak with me.”
Arawn’s gaze cut away from her.
“They don’t want to know me. They don’t want to…be friends. Just in case,” she concluded bitterly.
Arawn turned his head away.
“And the guards who appeared at the end of the corridor to our bedchambers…are they there to guard access to the wing or to keep me in? Will you be punishing them for letting me slip from the house?”
He met her gaze, his brows together. “They did no
t expect…” he began, his gaze moving over her.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “Then I am a prisoner.”
“No! It is not meant like that,” Arawn said.
“I cannot exist in that chamber and do nothing else with my days,” Ilsa cried. “I will go mad for lack of work!”
“You are safer there!”
Frustration bit her. “If your curse truly exists, it will find me there, too.”
His gaze met hers once more. They stood, both breathing hard.
“You don’t believe the curse?” he asked. His anger was not altogether gone, although his surprise had taken the edge off it.
Ilsa sighed and unstrung her bow and pushed it into the arrow bag over her back. “I know nothing of magic and curses,” she told him, as she worked. “Everyone in my village, whenever they spoke about the lack of rain, would also speak of a time of no rain in every generation. Their grandfathers told them, or their fathers, of the last great dry years.”
“Your village doesn’t think there is a curse, either?” Arawn asked, sounding even more surprised.
She shook her head. “Not connected to the rain, at least,” she added. “Rain will come on its own, they said. You though…they do think you are cursed.”
“Because my wives die,” he finished.
“Yes.”
“You believe it, too? That I alone am cursed and this drought has nothing to do with it?”
Ilsa spread her hands. “I am a wood-cutters daughter, my lord. What would I know about such matters? They are the province of kings and princes and other high born people. What I do know is out here.” She waved toward the trees. “Everything out here teaches lessons if you know how to look for them.”
Arawn’s anger drained. She could see it leave his eyes. His jaw relaxed. “Why did you agree to marry me, if you don’t believe the curse?”
“Because I could be wrong,” she said. “My parents and my village suffer from the lack of rain…or at least, they did suffer, until now.” She tilted her head. “Stilicho told me you sent them help and water and food and they are now recovered. Thank you for that.”
Dragon Kin Page 10
