by P. J. Fox
For the peasantry, however, dalliances were common—with the nobility and with each other. Rare was the brewer, for example, who rejected a wife because she’d had a roll or two in the hay. Or even several. Or a child. Many were the earls and dukes and viscounts who, married or no, supported illegitimate offspring. Some were raised with their fathers; others, more happily, were raised with their mothers and stepfathers.
All were treated, in Isla’s opinion, better than Hart. She wondered again at Hart’s decision to come north. What did he want from his life? He’d been remarkably close-lipped.
“No,” Rose said. “Protecting oneself against disease is considered acceptable by the church, but avoiding procreation is not.”
Which made no sense. Surely these legions of men weren’t wearing the sheathes with their wives? Or could the church be saying that any woman depraved enough to become a prostitute must therefore bear the risk of becoming with child? The church ignored, as did many of its parishioners, the fact that for most women prostitution was a last resort. Men went off to war and never returned, whether they’d died or simply found something better. Men drank themselves into stupors at taverns. Men, responsible for supporting women who, under church law, couldn’t seek gainful employment on their own.
Her own body was the only thing a woman could legally sell. And what should she do, when faced with the cries of starving children? Or worse, their silent stoicism.
Against the man who’d abandoned her, she had no legal recourse. A man couldn’t abandon himself, came the legal pundits’ sly response. His wife was merely an appendage, like an extra limb. Getting married, therefore, represented the ultimate act of trust.
Something Isla had been thinking about a lot, lately.
“Rich men, however,” Rose continued, “have sheaths made of lamb’s gut that they tie on with ribbons. They can be used more than once; when my mum took in laundry, she’d hang dozens of them out on the clothesline to dry. I’ve heard that some places they use tortoiseshell but Gods above, that sounds unpleasant.”
Isla had been studying the fire. Now she looked up, meeting her friend’s eyes in the dim, flickering light. “Rose, have you noticed anything…odd about Tristan?”
Rose considered the question in that slow, earnest way of hers. “Well, no,” she said finally. “Then again, all noble folk seem odd to me. No offense.” She blushed slightly. The divide between them had never been evident before, except perhaps in the mind of Isla’s father. But Caer Addanc was no Enzie Hall, where rank served mostly as an arbitrary designation. Earl and carter alike ate trout and worried over an empty purse.
Caer Addanc was like the king’s own home: formal. Isla and Rose might remain friends, but it would be in the fashion that most nobility befriended their servants. In private, and with a certain understanding between them. They’d never stand laughing in the practice yard again.
“He’s a bit pale and a bit…cold, although many men seem so to others not their wives.” She fed another stick into the fire. “I’m sure he’ll be…different with you.”
Different wasn’t the word for it. Isla sighed. “I think I’m going to bed,” she said.
Rose nodded absently, her mind on other things. Probably on what her own future would hold, Isla guessed. She’d been selfish in imagining that this change impacted only her. Rose and Hart had both chosen to come north—but, then again, so had Isla. That one had chosen a path didn’t make it any less frightening. In some ways, quite the opposite.
Rose and Hart both had reasons for wanting to leave Enzie behind. This was true. But, at the same time, they’d neither of them known any other life. And what, exactly, their place would be remained uncertain. Rose would be Isla’s maid but she had no idea how she’d be received into the duke’s household. How welcoming—or un—his other retainers would be. And Hart…if Hart knew what form his service would take, he hadn’t said.
She pulled her cloak closer around herself. She missed Tristan’s cloak; missed its heavy weight, missed the smell of him on the wool. Missed the sense of safety she felt from knowing that he was near. She still woke herself up nights, dreaming of Father Justin, a scream dying on her lips as she realized that she was alone. Or, occasionally, she saw Eir’s eyes flashing in the gloom. Eir, who didn’t appear to sleep, watched her.
Isla knew, objectively, that Father Justin was dead. That it wasn’t him she saw, every time a tent flap snapped in the breeze or some animal moved in the shadows. And she knew, as well, that Eir would keep her safe. Her own brother could hardly approach her without the gnome baring her fangs and hissing, like a cat.
Speaking of cats, Isla didn’t hear her own. She stopped at the entrance to the tent, cold fingers pressing into her spine as she tried to figure out what was different. What was wrong. And then she had it: there was no noise. No owl hooting over head; no raccoons rustling in the underbrush. No Mica, howling in her cage.
No, she told herself, don’t be ridiculous.
She’d been out of sorts all day. That was all. She’d convinced herself of one awful thing after another, each thing more awful than the last. That she’d made a terrible mistake, that Tristan didn’t love her. She’d even begun to wonder if Rowena, with her constant presence at meals, was trying to poison her food. And now she’d convinced herself that someone was in her tent.
All completely ridiculous, of course.
She needed, she told herself, to get out of this interminable purgatory that was her wedding journey. She needed to get away from these people, who seemed hell-bent on making her life a living hell. She needed to stop torturing herself with worst case scenarios from sun up until sundown. This—this being a pariah, it was going to her head.
She glanced left and right, seeing nothing unusual. A creature of some kind had woken her up the night before, snuffling around the base of her tent. Trying to get in, she’d thought. Then, no—deciding whether it wanted to. The thin canvas barrier offered the illusion of protection only. These were the suggestion of walls, designed to calm the mind, not the real thing. Any creature, man or beast, that wanted in had only to use the least force.
She told herself again that there was nothing to fear. She’d been raised on an estate, surrounded by people and with only the illusion of privacy. She wasn’t used to these wild, open spaces. The area they were in now was virtually uninhabited.
During the later part of the afternoon, they’d ridden by more than one derelict cottage. Several still bore the scorch marks from when they’d been set alight, their owners either dead or fled. Seeing them had made Isla shiver. She couldn’t help but imagine the circumstances behind these shells, the misery and hopelessness and lawlessness they represented.
She tried to tell herself that there were not bandits in her tent.
And then, steeling herself, she went in.
TWENTY-THREE
There was nothing.
Of course there was nothing. What had she been expecting? She tried to tell herself that she should laugh; that she’d been ridiculous. But she still didn’t hear Mica, and Mica must be getting tired of her cage. Isla hadn’t dared let her out very much, for fear that she’d get lost. Cats—much like their masters—weren’t above running off in a fit of pique.
Fumbling for her flint, she groped about blindly for the lamp.
Something rustled.
She froze, her arm partly extended. Mica, she told herself. It’s just Mica.
Taking a step forward, she blundered into the table. How fitting that she’d have an accident with the only piece of furniture in the tent. A folding table that had belonged to her great-grandfather, it was meant to be used on campaign. None of the men in her family had gone on campaign, however, in a very long time. So she’d cadged it.
She slid her fingertips along the pitted wooden surface, cursing herself for a fool.
And encountered something unexpected.
Cold flesh.
The hand moved like a striking snake, grabbing her.
&n
bsp; She couldn’t help herself; she shrieked.
“Isla,” a voice whispered, “is that you?”
She snatched her hand back. “Of course it’s me, you ninny,” she snapped, relief sharpening her voice. “This is my tent.” And then, “who were you expecting? Brian and the Forty Sailors?” In this she referred to the children’s poem, about a famous pirate who had adventures.
“Well I—I thought maybe it was a wolf,” Rowena finished lamely.
Finding the lamp, Isla lit it. Her sister’s features jumped into relief. Rowena faced her across the table. Where, Isla wondered, was Eir? She felt a stab of irritation at the gnome, then checked herself. She’d gone from wishing Eir would leave her alone to, the minute Eir vanished, wishing her back again? That was hardly fair. As unpleasant as her erstwhile tailor’s presence could be, she was at least a—if not friendly, then familiar—face.
How bad were things that she’d come to see Eir as an ally?
“Rowena,” she asked more reasonably, “what are you doing here?”
That Rowena had come to chat seemed unlikely. And in the flickering lamplight, Rowena looked distinctly guilty. “I thought,” she said, “that someone was trying to steal from the tent.”
“Someone?” Isla echoed.
“I heard a noise.”
“Well that’s very chivalrous of you,” Isla said dryly. She wondered what she’d find, if she checked Rowena’s pockets. Rowena had, among her many other pithy observations, informed Isla on more than one occasion that she now had too many jewels for one person. Too many consisting of her ring and the necklace that Tristan had given her, as well as a string of beads that Hart had given her years ago, when she was first allowed to braid her hair. They were only wood, but perfectly shaped and well polished.
“It’s not like I want to be here,” Rowena said defensively.
“Yes, I know.”
“I have a wedding of my own to plan.”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’ll be better than yours.”
“It’ll be your wedding, Rowena, which will make it better for you.” As difficult as Rowena found the idea to credit, Isla bore her no ill will. The situation between them made her sad, not angry. And she certainly wasn’t jealous; Rudolph Bengough was the very last man she wanted to marry. He might be nice enough, after his own fashion, but she found him utterly ridiculous. Rudolph, with his poetry and his codpieces. “I genuinely do want you to be happy,” she finished. I want us both to be happy.
“I will be happy.” Rowena sniffed. Turning, she examined Isla’s perfume box. “But really, I don’t see why I need to be here. Your wedding simply isn’t relevant to me. And yet here we are, hearing about your gowns and your garters and what of mine? I have no trousseau to speak of!”
“Rowena,” Isla corrected, “you know perfectly well that that’s not true.” Rowena had a lovely gown that she’d sewn herself, and that fitted her perfectly. She’d made it for this very occasion the summer before, after she’d made up her mind to marry Rudolph. Because, as she’d pointed out then, gowns took time and she had to be ready. She could hardly wait on his say-so to begin work. “And Rudolph,” she added, “will love you and think you the most beautiful woman in the world regardless of what you wear.”
“So that’s it?” Rowena turned, her eyes glittering unpleasantly in the low light. “You think I should just content myself with any old thing? That a sack is good enough for your sister? While you drape yourself in moonstones and furs?”
“No, of course not. I only meant that—you already have a gown.”
“But it’s not velvet. I bet yours will be velvet. Velvet and beading and—”
I bet that, under that codpiece, Rudolph is built like a chipmunk. “I can speak to Eir, if you’d like,” she offered more magnanimously. “Perhaps you can borrow some of her fabric—”
“Borrow?” Rowena shrieked. “Borrow from you?”
“I was trying to be nice,” Isla said stiffly. “But if you’re just going to stand here and yell at me then—”
“They call you Tristan’s harlot,” Rowena said nastily. “And everyone talks about how you’ve done every sort of thing with him—every sort. You’re cheap and so is he; I hear, too, that he’s practiced buggery. And with men. He’s not a good church man like Rudolph. Rudolph would never give himself over to vile, unnatural lusts.”
“That’s what you think.” Isla glared. She didn’t want to sink to Rowena’s level but she was so hurt that she couldn’t help herself. “If he doesn’t find what he wants with you,” she cried, “be sure that he’ll find it somewhere else!”
“Spoken like a true whore!” Even in the gloom, Isla could see a mottled blush creep up Rowena’s neck. Her face had turned the dull purple of an eggplant. Whirling, she turned and left. It was difficult to make a graceful exit from a tent, but she did her best.
Isla stared at the tent flap for a long time after her sister left.
Eventually, she sat down on her bedroll. She left the lamp burning. There was a root under her that dug unpleasantly into her flank. But however she tried to move, she still found the root. Flickering flames cast weird shadows on the stained canvas, canvas that smelled vaguely of cedar chips and mold.
She wanted to cry.
Rowena, the sister she’d once regarded as something of a child, was jealous of her clothes. Had probably stolen her jewelry. Hated her, and had called her a harlot. Which, to the girl who viewed sex as a mortal sin, was the worst insult imaginable.
Isla wondered how Rowena had come to adopt such a view, and how Isla herself had failed her. Surely, such a loathing for the opposite sex couldn’t be normal. Or, at least for the intimacy between them. Rowena had shown no preference for women, either; she simply believed, as apparently some women truly did, that courtly love was the only true form of love and that sex was a necessary evil.
Perhaps she’d come to this conclusion, having grown up in a house where there was quite so much sex. Their father and Apple hardly provided an example of domestic bliss; and Rowena was as aware as anyone, surely, that Hart had ever been a competitor for their stepmother’s affections. So Isla supposed that, when presented with such a free-for-all, first a child and then a young woman might well conclude that sex was indeed the root of all evils.
As she tried to clear her head, Isla caught herself thinking back over the time since she’d last seen Tristan. She felt like she’d done nothing but, when she took the time to catalogue how she’d actually spent her days, in truth she’d been busy. As much as they’d dragged, the weeks leading up to their departure had kept her more than occupied. A whirlwind of dress fittings and other practical matters had eaten up every minute not spent helping Silas become acquainted with his new home. Isla had gone straight from the dairy churns to her bedroom, where Eir had pinned her with pieces of muslin and glared.
Eir made her stand on the hearth bench so she could pull the hems straight, cutting the fabric so it would pool around Isla’s feet as she moved. Not terribly practical, but then Isla’s days of dyeing and were over. She needed clothing, not to work in but to host dinners in. To entertain diplomats in. To visit court in.
The idea terrified her and, sitting between trunks filled with expensive luxuries, she felt more alone than ever.
TWENTY-FOUR
“I, ah…recovered this,” the gnome hissed. She turned her slender hand palm up and, uncurling her fingers, revealed the polished wooden beads. Her skin was as marble white as Tristan’s, but translucent where his was waxy.
Isla said nothing, but inside her heart sank. Why those beads, she wondered? Any one of Tristan’s presents was worth a great deal more. Why not steal one of those? She caught herself pondering the question, and her heart sank further. Here she was, not surprised by the fact of her sister’s theft but merely wondering, dispassionately, what she wanted the loot for. She didn’t dare ask, either, how Eir had gone about recovering the necklace—or how she’d known that it was missing in the f
irst place.
Eir answered her unasked question. “I was…watching,” she said. When her protector and erstwhile tailor spoke, her voice sounded like the wet whistling of a chest wound. One could tell that, while she spoke the language fluently, the sounds of Morva did not come naturally to her. Isla wondered, briefly, what the gnome tongue sounded like.
Upending her palm, Eir poured the beads gracefully onto the table and then sat down opposite Isla. The tent was small; there wasn’t much room. Still, the gnome didn’t take up much space. “I am always watching,” the gnome hissed.
Isla wondered if she was being reproved for something. Thinking that she was alone, perhaps. The gnome had an unsettling way of, not reading her mind so much as finding her…predictable. This was because, according to Eir, all human beings were the same. “Growing up,” she said, “I always thought gnomes were fat and short.”
Eir made the low, chuffing sound that Isla had come to recognize as laughter. “And growing up,” she replied, “I thought that all human women were as sloe-eyed and dull as cattle. I was…displeased with my assignment to be your guardian. But you are not…so bad.”
“Thank you,” Isla said seriously.
“Your sister was…unfortunate.”
“You heard?” Isla studied the gnome’s face in the lamplight. “If you heard, why didn’t you say anything?” Some protector she was, Isla grumbled to herself, her momentary good mood vanishing. Eir had—what, been hiding outside? Listening in on them like some errant schoolchild? She should have, Isla was fairly certain, come to her mistress’ defense.
“Say anything?” Eir queried, a note of disbelief in her tone. “You are an adult woman, are you not? Or do you now need a nursemaid, as well as a guardian and a tailor?”
“She was being mean.” Isla sounded whiny in her own ears.
Eir arched a single eyebrow. “Things are…different in my culture,” she said finally. Relaxing, she stretched out full length. When she spoke again, she was staring up at the pitch of the tent. She appeared for all the world to be perfectly quiescent, but Isla knew how fast she could move. Eir leapt from surface to surface like a spider, and she was always alert.
