by Kim Wilkins
The door to the hall creaked open under her trembling hands. There he was. Her heart caught on a hook. He was deep in conversation with Wengest, his back turned to her. His body, so familiar to her yet so long kept from her: his square shoulders, his lean legs. His clothes were dirty from the journey, his long, golden hair lank with sweat.
Wengest glanced up and saw her and came to take her hand with a sad expression on his brow. Rose’s vision darkened. Her bliss bled away. It was ill news, that’s why Bluebell had sent him. Rose felt a fool, young and self-centred.
‘What is it?’ she said, her voice giving way.
Heath turned, his sea-green eyes fixed on her. ‘Rose,’ he said, and his voice was a breath on an ember that had never faded to coal. The heat of her heart was in her face, but cold dread weighed down her hands, gripped roughly in Wengest’s fingers.
‘My sisters?’ she managed.
‘Are all well,’ Wengest said quickly. ‘Your father, though, is ill.’
‘Ill?’
Heath tilted his head, almost imperceptibly, to the side, his mouth tightening softly. His adored cheek was faintly lined, not as smooth as it had been three years ago. What horrors had he seen in the intervening years? ‘Your father is dying,’ he said, plainly.
An image of her father sprang to mind: his tall, lithe body; his unruly fair hair; his boyish smile. ‘But ... but I saw him not two months ago. He was here with his wife. He looked well.’
‘I’m sorry, Rose.’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Bluebell rides even now for Blicstowe. She wants you to join her immediately.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Slow down,’ Wengest said, dropping her hands and standing back. ‘I can’t race off to Blicstowe now. I have business here.’
‘I have to go,’ Rose said, indignant. ‘It might be my last chance to see my father. Your ally. The king of Ælmesse.’
‘You can’t travel alone.’
‘I travelled here alone five years ago, when we married.’
‘Women can’t wander about by themselves. It will set people talking.’
‘What do I care for such talk? If I don’t go they’ll talk, too. They’ll say I didn’t love my father.’ Rose became aware Heath was watching them squabble. She felt small.
‘I can accompany Rose,’ Heath said, slowly.
Rose’s skin hummed. Wengest considered. Her imagination formed the journey a thousand times in a moment: flashes of caresses, kisses, embraces that crushed her ribs ...
‘Wengest,’ Heath said, ‘when Æthlric dies, Bluebell will rule in his place. She would want her sisters about her.’
A sour expression crossed Wengest’s face. Rose knew what he thought of women rulers. And yet, he was as afraid of Bluebell’s power as any of the kings in Thyrsland. She was capable of raising a passionately loyal army quickly and deploying it with devastating brilliance. And her ability on the battlefield was legendary: rumours circulated that the raiders spoke of dying by her sword — known as the Widowsmith — as the only honourable way to die at the hands of a Thyrslander.
‘You are right, Heath,’ Wengest said. ‘It’s a politically important moment. I need you there to represent my interests. Rose can accompany you.’
Rose was careful not to say anything at all, lest her desire be betrayed by her voice.
Heath nodded. ‘I’ll speak to the stable hands and have two fresh horses for us to ride in the morning.’
Rose took a deep breath. ‘Will you join us for a meal?’ she asked Heath.
‘I ... I’ve been riding non-stop for two days,’ he said, glancing away.
Her heart thudded uncertainly.
‘Not a moment to sit and talk to your favourite uncle?’ Wengest said, slapping his shoulder.
Heath smiled weakly. ‘Let me bathe. Perhaps it will restore me.’
Rose watched him leave. The promise of his presence over dinner was a delicious thrill in her heart. Wengest slid his arm around her. ‘You should go to Nyll. Pray for your father’s soul.’
Rose turned and caught him in her gaze. ‘My father does not believe in Nyll’s religion.’ Æthlric ruled through love, not fear. Æthlric was a leader who rode out into the battlefield to protect his people. Wengest sat at home and ate too much pork fat.
Wengest shrugged. ‘Your hot tone suggests you take offence. I mean none. But you will go to evening-thought with Nyll tonight.’ He released her roughly and moved off, closing the doors behind him with a thud. Rose stood in the hall alone.
The inside of the chapel was dim and smelled of mould. It was the last place Rose would have thought a soul could feel closer to the vast and powerful gods, and yet Nyll claimed all the trimartyrs built little chapels like this. And then they enforced daily, dreary observances like Æfenthenken. Every afternoon at dusk, Rose, Wengest and Rowan came to kneel on the bare floor of the chapel to contemplate the fate of their souls. Nyll, the head of the faith in Netelchester, knelt with them. He seemed to enjoy kneeling on the hard ground, as though the bruises on his knees provided the proof of his god that was everywhere else lacking. Maava was a lone male god who ruled without balance and with a rather cruel set of directives. Little wonder the faith wasn’t catching on.
And yet, this was the decision Wengest had made for Netelchester three years ago. He had perceived the expedience of a religion that held kings as divine. The citizens of Netelchester became trimartyrs overnight, but in name only. While the people here in Folcenham knew what was expected of them, most of the people in the countryside had no idea they were to believe anything other than the common observances. Most in the small towns quietly and subtly continued as they always had.
Rose glanced at Rowan. The trimartyrs also believed women were unfit to rule. Rowan would never be queen of Netelchester. The little girl’s dimpled hands were clutched together in front of her, but her eyes wandered everywhere. Through her daughter’s dark hair Rose had wound hawthorn blossoms to mark the first month of spring. Rose’s own little protest against the dust-dry trimartyrs and their year round misery.
‘Rose,’ Nyll said with due gravity, rising to his feet, ‘I am told your father is dying.’
No matter how often she thought it, Rose could barely credit it. Æthlric of Ælmesse’s fate surely was not to die of a sickness in his bower, but on the battlefield with a gutful of iron. ‘They say he is sick, yes,’ she said.
Nyll licked his lips, as though tasting the sorrow. Lord knew he tasted everything else. He had grown as fat as a pig and as overconfident as a kitchen rat. He had once been deferential, even kind. But he and Wengest were close; they feasted and drank together. Now, Rose suspected, he thought himself well above her. And yet, he wasn’t brave enough to tell her to unwind the hawthorn from her daughter’s hair. Her family was too powerful.
‘We should pray for him.’
Rose set her teeth. ‘If it is your will.’ She endured the prayer with good grace, taking particular delight in Rowan excavating her nose while Nyll tried not to notice. Her knees grew sore. Wengest had already given up kneeling and sat back with his legs stretched out in front of him.
Finally, the prayer was over. Wengest, still sour with her, gave Nyll a meaningful nod and strode off. Wengest was often sour with her, so it was of no moment. He would forget they’d exchanged heated words by bedtime, especially if he wanted to fumble against her body in the dark. Rose collected Rowan and attempted to exit. Rowan, deeply involved in picking candle wax drips from the floorboards, squealed indignantly. As Rose scooped her up, her little legs wriggled like fishes.
‘Let her play a moment,’ Nyll said. ‘Wengest asked that I speak to you about something.’
Rose set Rowan down, and the child immediately lay herself flat on the floor to cry a little more in protest.
‘What is it?’ Rose asked over the din.
Nyll folded his hands in front of him. ‘It’s about the problem of Wengest’s heir.’
Rose’s heartbeat doubled. ‘Th
e problem of ...?’
‘Yes. You’ve not given him a son yet.’
‘Oh.’ Now Rowan had started to beat an angry rhythm with her skull on the floor. Rose was distracted, caring little for what Nyll was saying. ‘Rowan, stop that, you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘Your little girl is three. Many months have passed without your belly swelling again.’
Rose bit her lip so she didn’t mention the way his belly had swelled.
‘Are you seeking help from someone to avoid having a child?’ he continued. Rose was confused out of her ability to speak clearly by his accusation. ‘What? No.’ She pushed Rowan gently with her foot. ‘Get up.’
‘Those of the common faith know how to prevent the quickening. It’s an evil in Maava’s eyes, though. Have you sinned?’
In truth, Rose hadn’t spared many thoughts for her inability to fall pregnant these last three years. She had hoped for another baby and, yes, a boy. Wengest would be satisfied and he might thereafter leave her be. But Wengest couldn’t father children, that much was clear. He only thought he could, because it was beyond imagining for him that she had presented him with another man’s child. With his nephew’s child.
‘Your silence speaks to me,’ Nyll said.
‘And what does it say?’ she replied, too quickly for kindness.
Nyll forced a smile. ‘It would be much better for everyone if you accepted you are a trimartyr queen, Rose. Not a heathen like your sisters. You oughtn’t wander off to the village witch every time you need something.’ His eyes wandered to Rowan, to the small white flowers in her hair. ‘That is all I shall say.’
Rose hid her amusement. How it must stick in his throat that one of her sisters was a common faith counsellor and that another was a famous soldier. Then her mouth turned bitter. It stuck in her own throat. She was nothing more than a peace-weaver, a way for Ælmesse and Netelchester to stop fighting long enough to secure the south of Thyrsland from raiders. A settlement so promised could not be unpromised without bloodshed. And so she was doomed to return to this chapel every day for Æfenthenken and watch Nyll grow fatter and more officious.
‘Mama? I’m still hungry.’
Rose turned to Rowan. The child’s face was awash in tears and snot. ‘You mean you’re hungry again,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ she said with a solemn nod, ‘I’m hungry again.’
Rose glanced over her shoulder at Nyll. ‘I shan’t need any of your trimartyr help to get pregnant yet, though I thank you for thinking of me. I travel tomorrow to Blicstowe with Heath.’ The words were round and full of promise on her tongue, like cool grapes in summer. ‘Perhaps when I get back you can pray to Maava that my husband’s arrow finds its target more fruitfully.’
Nyll blushed.
She grabbed Rowan’s hand and headed out into the twilit evening. At the door to the hall, she caught herself: here she was looking forward to travelling to Blicstowe, and yet it was a journey to say goodbye to her father. But to be away from the dark tedium of life as King Wengest’s wife was to breathe again. To breathe so at Heath’s side was happiness, no matter through what sorrow it was won.
By nightfall, the hall tables had been erected and a deer spitted over the hearthpit. Wengest’s thanes arrived with their wives, who crowded together at the lower table so the children could run about in the empty space at the far end of the hall. The smell of roasting meat made Rose’s stomach grumble. A small feast, but a feast nonetheless, to celebrate the return of the king’s nephew.
Only the king’s nephew didn’t arrive.
Rose kept her eyes on the entrance to the hall, her mind only a tenth on the mundane conversation of the other wives. Rowan played with another little girl. They plucked hairs out each other’s scalps, then pretended to spin them on sticks: laughter and tears in equal measure. The mead was sweet and spicy across her tongue, but failed to relax her. Travelling tale-tellers had arrived a week before, and Wengest invited them to perform. One played the harp, the other recited a story about brave deeds and shining treasures. Then the music became soft and sad, and they began a song about a faithless wife and her cuckolded husband. Rose’s skin prickled.
Guilt, yes. She was always guilty. Wengest was a good man. She didn’t love him, but that was not his fault and he did deserve love. But it was fear that truly haunted her: fear she would be found out. She glanced at Rowan, firelight in her hair. The little girl loved Wengest so much. For Rose to be with Heath, Wengest would have to be out of their lives. Such an unhappiness to wish upon a child.
The song continued. Faithless wives were a common theme for tale-tellers and balladeers. And yet Rose didn’t recognise herself in the description. She didn’t have a wandering gaze, nor a sick yearning for young men, nor a sexual appetite that couldn’t be fulfilled. She was simply a woman who had unexpectedly fallen in love with the wrong man, and love was lord of everyone. The affair, experienced from the inside, was honest and beautiful and completely real. Not a dark stain on a pure man’s story.
The meal was served. Still Heath didn’t come. Rose ate without appetite, throwing food on top of hunger for reasons that were only practical. Her eyes travelled again and again to the entrance, her heart jumped at shadows. Finally, she excused herself and went up to Wengest’s table. He was deep in conversation with one of his thanes, but looked up with a smile when he saw Rose approach.
‘What is it, my dear?’
‘Our honourable guest? Heath?’
‘Ah, he caught me outside at sunset. He’s too tired to join us.’
All bright colours bled out of the world. ‘Oh.’
‘So don’t worry about him.’ He took her hand. ‘Look you. Rowan is having a lovely time.’
Rose glanced over her shoulder. Rowan was playing a hiding game behind the carved wooden pillars with some of the smaller children. She squealed with laughter, and her face was shiny with excitement.
‘I’ll never get her to sleep tonight,’ Rose muttered. But then, she wouldn’t have to deal with Rowan’s tired tantrums tomorrow, would she? And it mattered little that Heath hadn’t come tonight, because soon they would be alone together for a long time.
Wengest didn’t demand she come to his bower that night and for that she was glad. She would not have to endure his rough beard on her cheek while holding the image of clean-shaven Heath in her imagination. Rowan was curled against her side, sleeping fast. Rose would miss her; already she ached with thoughts of the separation. But she would be gone a few weeks at most, and she would have Heath’s presence to comfort her. Certainly, at her father’s hall there would be little chance for them to meet unseen, and so all her hopes were pinned on their journey. They would avoid the inns where spies lurked everywhere; they would sleep under the more forgiving stars. She closed her eyes tightly and imagined Heath’s arms around her, the warm, male scent of him. Then other thoughts intruded. Her father, illness, death, sorrow. Sleep was a long time coming.
The sun did not smile on them. Drizzle oozed through the clouds as Rose and Heath stood in the courtyard waiting for the stable hands to bring them their horses. The leaden sky was in perfect tune with the blanket of gravity under which Rose had woken. Father is dying. This morning the fact was blunt and real.
Wengest stood under the eaves. Rowan stood next to him, clinging to her nurse’s leg and whining loudly. The goodbye had already been said and Rose wished the nurse would take the child away and distract her somehow. She helped the stable hand adjust the saddle and was about to mount up when she saw the nurse picking her way across the mud with Rowan wriggling in her arms.
‘I’ve already said farewell to the child,’ Rose said irritably.
‘King Wengest said you’re to take her with you.’
‘What?’ She looked sharply at Wengest, who made a dismissive gesture.
‘He said the child belongs with her mother.’
All Rose’s fantasies fell away, leaving behind the ordinary truth: she was a mother before she was a lover. ‘I see.
Well, will you pass her up?’ Rose mounted the horse, pointedly not looking at Heath. She didn’t want to see her disappointment echoed in his eyes. Rowan was her daughter, after all. The separation would have been hard.
But the freedom would have been sweet.
Now Rowan wriggled and started crying about wanting to say goodbye to Papa. Rose wrangled her onto the saddle between her legs, pressing her close. ‘Don’t fidget so, Rowan. You’ll fall.’
‘Papa?’ she said, mournfully, reaching chubby hands towards him.
‘Hush, Rowan.’
‘But I want Papa.’
Rose caught Wengest’s gaze and subtly indicated with a tilt of her head that he should come to give his daughter some kind of affection in parting. He shook his head. Rose was used to this: Wengest believed it wasn’t wise for a king to show affection in public, that people would think him weak. Rose didn’t mind for herself, but Rowan was working up into a fit, her voice growing more desolate. ‘Papa, Papa!’
‘Let’s make this quick,’ Rose said to Heath.
Heath responded by urging his horse forwards, Rose moved off after him. Hot imaginings of intimacy were left on the muddy slope as they trotted down to the gatehouse and out into rain-drenched fields, Rowan wailing all the way.
The rhythm of the horse settled Rowan eventually and the rain eased. But distance and travel made talking difficult, and knowing Rowan was listening constrained Rose to discussing with Heath only outward things. Rowan was famed for repeating what she had heard adults say, with unerring mistiming.
Rose spent most of the day measuring the breadth of Heath’s shoulders from behind him. She remembered those shoulders, bare and pale. She remembered the smudged black tattoo over his heart: a bird with its feet in its own beak. She remembered pressing her own naked flesh against him, the lightness of his fingertips across her nipples and the sweet heat of his mouth against her stomach. She remembered it, yes, but the years had drawn a curtain between them. As the day wore on, as she stole glances at him while he kept his eyes resolutely in front of him, he grew to seem a character from a dream. This man, the real father of her child: a stranger at the centre of a familiar longing.
