The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  “I’m sorry, lady. Stumbling into you like that has driven sensible thoughts from my mind. I will bring you food at once.” He moves to the door, then turns. “And would you like to wash?”

  “Oh, please. I’ve been in a cave and a cage and a barrow. I’m so dirty I don’t even feel human.”

  He smiles. “Well, there are those who say you aren’t human.”

  I sigh. “I hope you’ll explain that.”

  “When you’ve washed and dined, we will sit with Belert and talk. We have much to ask you, and we’ll try to answer your questions.” He goes out and closes the door firmly behind him.

  I walk around the chamber, admiring things. There is a mirror on the top shelf, and I hold it to the light. My face is filthy, my hair straggles around it, and my tunic is torn and bloody at the shoulder. The wound on my forehead looks healed. If I can wash away the dried blood and dirt, it will hardly show. I put the mirror back and look down at my legs. My trousers and boots are caked with mud, and my tunic is almost as bad.

  There is a noise outside the entrance. Spusscio speaks quietly. “Can you open the door?”

  He brings a kettle of steaming water and a large basin and sets them on the floor. “I’ll be back with cold water. I don’t want the servants to know you are here, so I’ll get it myself.”

  When he returns, he carries a bucket of cold water with a ladle in it and a bundle of scrubbing twigs wrapped in a linen towel. He sets the cold water beside the basin and puts the towel and twigs on the table. “I’ll get the fire going for you.”

  He leaves for a moment and returns with a handful of blazing twigs. After he has lit the kindling and laid on logs from a pile in the corner, he straightens up and gestures toward the larchwood box and the containers on the shelves. “You will find clean clothes in those.”

  When the door shuts behind Spusscio, I strip off my dirty things and step into the basin. I dip the ladle first into the cold water, then the hot, and pour the mixture over my body. When I’m wet enough, I scrub the soapwort twigs into a lather on my skin and rinse with more clear, warm water.

  The basin is full long before I’m finished. I peer out the window and see nothing but the back rampart wall and a clump of shrubs. I dump the dirty water over the bushes and return to my bath. I savor the feel of clean water coursing over my skin with each ladleful. Finally, with both kettle and bucket empty, I rub myself dry with the strip of linen.

  The dwarf seemed certain I could borrow clean clothes, but I hesitate before the box. At last I lift the lid. I find a clean undershift and pull it on thankfully. The fresh linen is finely woven and feels smooth against my body. I lift a tunic and see a familiar fabric under it.

  I packed my girdle in my saddle bundle at Dun Dreug. It should be with Rol in the stable—if he is still there. It could not be here, deep in someone else’s storage chest, but what is this?

  I pull the embroidered cloth out of the chest and smooth the fabric with my hand, feeling the silky raised needlework. The pattern is similar to mine, but there are differences. Though the colors are alike, the flowers are not the same. There is a stain on the front of this one, and the ties are frayed. I study it carefully; it is soft with wear. I have worn mine only a few times.

  I feel a shiver down my body as I hold the piece. It’s not really so strange that something Moren brought me from Dun Alyn looks like another piece of fabric here, but I have an eerie feeling about it.

  I look through the clothes and find a woolen dress in a beautiful shade of green. I pull it over my head and tie it with the girdle. There are slippers on one of the shelves, and I tug them on, then attack my hair with a sturdy bone comb.

  When I hear Spusscio at the door again, I hurry to help him in. He has a large bread trencher piled with slices of beef and root vegetables in one hand and balances a small loaf of wheat bread on a flagon of ale with the other. He places the lot on the table and puts the dirk from his belt beside the food.

  I am so hungry I barely remember to thank him before I start eating. He lifts the basin of dirty water but stands staring at me instead of leaving.

  I swallow a large chunk of beef and ask, “What’s wrong? I’m sorry if my manners offend you. I haven’t had good food for days.”

  He shakes his head. “You could be Miquain. You must be Miquain, though I know you are not.”

  I remember the bard’s story. “Miquain? Cara and Belert’s daughter?”

  “Aye. You look just like her.”

  I look around. “Is this her room?”

  He nods.

  I swallow some of the ale. “Perhaps I should not have put on her clothes.” I look with distaste toward the pile of soiled things I’ve removed.

  “I will tell him I told you to. He won’t mind.” He balances the basin and moves to the door. I rise to open it, then close it tightly after him.

  I finish the meat and vegetables and, when the loaf of fine wheat bread is gone, even eat most of the coarse, crusty trencher. I am swallowing the last of the ale when the door bursts open.

  Chief Belert steps into the room.

  I LEAP TO MY FEET, WIPING AT MY GREASY MOUTH AND hands with the linen towel left from my bath.

  He stands without moving, staring at me. Finally he speaks in a soft voice. “Miquain? Is it you, then?”

  The look on his face moves me to tears. I want at this moment to be Miquain, to do anything or be anyone that might bring comfort to this tragic man. But I can only speak as gently as possible. “I’m sorry to startle you, sir. I am not Miquain.”

  “You are not Miquain?” He looks old, bewildered.

  I cannot check my tears. I swipe at my face with the towel. “I am Ilena. Remember? I was in the hall three nights ago.”

  He makes an effort to recover himself. “Yes. Ogern sent you to the grove. He said wolves broke in and took you.”

  “I escaped from the wolves.” I am still not ready to say Ryamen’s name.

  “Why are you in Miquain’s room?” He does not sound angry, just deeply sorrowful.

  “I brought her here, Belert.” Spusscio speaks from behind him. “I meant to warn you, but I missed you in the hall.”

  “She is not Miquain.” This time he sounds resigned.

  “No. She is not. I think we must decide who she is.”

  “Yes. Yes, certainly.” Belert looks for a place to sit.

  Spusscio brings us more ale and a large stack of sweet cakes. He hands them to me and motions toward the door. “We should go into your quarters, sir. If anyone comes they will not be surprised to hear voices in there.”

  “Yes.” Belert looks around Miquain’s room slowly. He notices my clothes and the open box on the floor.

  I start to say something but catch Spusscio’s eye. He shakes his head, and I remain silent.

  I follow the chief into his chamber. Spusscio comes behind, carrying the kettle and bucket with the towel and limp soapstone twigs inside. He stacks them by the door.

  This chamber is much larger than Miquain’s. There are thick hangings over all the walls, and two windows look out on the ramparts. The bedplace is wide and richly appointed. A large table with benches enough for several people stands near the hearth. Boxes and baskets sit about the room and on the shelves. A shield much like the one I carried from Enfert stands in a corner with a bundle of spears. A sword in a gold-trimmed scabbard leans in another corner, its chape nestled into a groove between floor stones.

  Belert sits at the table and leans his head in his hands. Spusscio stirs the smoldering fire to life. A light rain has begun to fall, and I can see dark clouds above the ramparts. I place the food and drink on the large table and look around for something to wipe the honey off my fingers. Spusscio sees my problem and gets me the linen towel from the bucket.

  When both of us are settled, Belert looks up and speaks. “Now, Spusscio, how do we have Ilena here in this place?”

  “She stumbled over me on the grounds. I recognized her from the description I’d been give
n and thought this the safest place for her.”

  “Does anyone know you brought her here?”

  “I don’t think so. Resad spoke to us outside, but Ilena’s face was hidden. He’d seen her enter with those girls from Leven Dale and assumed I was bargaining for her favors.” Spusscio turns to me. “I apologize again, lady, for so insulting you.”

  I laugh. “It was quick thinking. I would rather risk my reputation than my life. I’d already been rejected by the sentries and fought my way free of a stable boy. I didn’t realize what kind of women I was joining when I walked in with that group.”

  Belert says, “Probably the safest disguise you could have managed. Now, tell us how you freed yourself in the grove.” He is sitting straight now, and his voice has the sound of authority. He must have recovered from the surge of grief my appearance caused.

  I do not answer him. I cannot bring myself to lie to these two. Still, I will not name Ryamen.

  The chief seems to understand my dilemma. “You are loyal to whoever helped you. I admire that. I would have come to your aid that night, but Ogern drugged my ale. I could not think clearly or speak.”

  “Yes,” Spusscio says, “I heard the story yesterday when I returned from a journey. I tried to wake you but it was impossible, so I hurried alone to the grove. I found Ogern and Resad there puzzling over the empty cage.”

  I remain silent.

  Spusscio gets up. “I think I can answer your question, Belert.” He leaves the room and returns with Ryamen’s cloak, folded as I left it with the brooch pinned on top. He hands it to Belert.

  The chief studies the brooch. He traces the swirls with his finger. “There is no doubt, is there?”

  Spusscio shakes his head. Both look at me. Belert speaks. “My wife gave this brooch to Ryamen. She would not have parted with it lightly.”

  There is no point in staying quiet. “She gave me the cloak to keep me warm until she returned, but she never came back.”

  “She released you from the cage, then?” Belert asks.

  I rub the gouge in my shoulder and think back to the wolves and my fear. “Yes. She drove away the wolves too, and took me to a barrow of the old ones.”

  Spusscio says, “There was a dead wolf in the pen. Did you kill it?”

  I nod. I can still feel the coarse fur under my hands and smell the sharp animal scent.

  “I will try to find out what has happened to Ryamen,” Spusscio says.

  Belert settles on the bench with his back against the wall. “Now, Ilena, will you tell us about yourself?”

  I begin with my childhood in the Vale of Enfert. When I speak of the journeys Moren made every year, both men have questions. “What time of year did he come?” “What did he bring back?” “What did he say?” “Did he mention names?” I answer the best I can, but as I explain, he and Grenna took care that I not overhear their conversations about his trips.

  When I tell about Moren’s last days, Belert wipes his eyes. “He was my close friend as well as my wife’s brother.” He falls silent at the look on my face.

  “Moren was your wife’s brother?”

  He nods. “I thought you knew. Didn’t Moren tell you anything about your lineage?”

  “No,” I say, “though it was clear that we were different from others in the valley. Moren knew everything about defense and warfare. Both my parents told stories about fortresses and great halls that they had visited, and Moren spoke of battles and heroes. He said our people’s women often led war bands, and he trained me to be a warrior.”

  Spusscio laughs. “You could not have a better reference than that, Ilena. Moren was the greatest military expert in the North. Many would say in Britain.”

  I stare into the fire for a time, trying to grasp this new information. At last I stand to stretch my legs and try to clear my head. Belert and Spusscio are silent while I walk to the window and look out into the dreary evening sky. When I turn around, Belert speaks.

  “I know you are tired, Ilena, but we need to ask you more questions.”

  I nod. “I understand. I’ll try to help, but I can’t make any sense of it.”

  “Begin by telling us about your journey, especially about the battle.” His eyes are steady on my face. I feel that he is seeing me now and not Miquain.

  I tell of meeting Durant and of Chief Perr’s hospitality. I describe the trip over the mountains with Gola and Cochan and my trip alone down the mountain and across the valley. When I say, “The group of painted ones was waiting for me in the clearing,” Spusscio interrupts me.

  “Painted? Where? On their faces?”

  “Tattoos on the face,” I answer. “And they had the high cheekbones of the northern ones. Many at Dun Dreug had tattoos on their arms and shoulders, but these were different.”

  Spusscio nods. “Aye. That would fit. Cormec said they were from beyond Red Mountain. It is strange that they chose to attack you. They do not take slaves, and one horse would not tempt them.”

  “There was another person there,” I say.

  “You tried to tell me something in the hall,” Belert says. “Was that it?”

  “Yes. Ogern kept me from speaking.”

  “I am sorry. If the drugged ale had not weakened me, I could have shouted him down and kept control of the hall.”

  I shake my head. “Resad kept starting calls for my death. He stirred everyone up. And”—I pause for a moment—“Resad was the other person at the fork in the trail.”

  The two sit staring at me for several minutes. Then Belert turns to Spusscio. “You are right. Ogern and Resad have been hard at work.”

  The dwarf says, “I take no joy in being right, Belert. In this case I would like to be wrong.”

  “Spusscio has been telling me for some time that Ogern is behind the tragedies that have overtaken Dun Alyn. I refused to believe him, but if they will attempt to kill you, perhaps…” The chief’s voice trails off.

  “Perhaps they plotted the attack on Dun Alyn,” Spusscio finishes.

  Belert sighs. “His niece and”—his voice breaks on the word—“Miquain.”

  Spusscio speaks in a weary voice. “Ogern has become more and more convinced that he must hold the old ways firm against the new religion. It is a crusade for him. A man is not rational when he lets one thought blind him to everything else.”

  “Their own uncle.” Belert’s voice is low and harsh.

  “I fear so, Belert.”

  “I will avenge their deaths.” The look in his eyes is frightening. “But first I must hold Dun Alyn against Ogern’s claim for his granddaughter.”

  Spusscio points to me. “Ilena is the true heir.”

  I stare back at him with my mouth open. Heir to Dun Alyn? It is a crazy thought.

  Belert watches me in silence for a time before he speaks. “Certainly! You are Cara’s niece.”

  “But if I am not Grenna’s daughter …?”

  “Ogern was right about Grenna,” Belert says. “Ryamen said that she could have no more children. That deepened her grief over the infant’s death.”

  “But midwives have been wrong,” Spusscio turns to me. “Do you know when Moren and Grenna arrived at the Vale of Enfert?”

  “What do you mean?” Belert asked.

  “If Ryamen was wrong, Grenna could have borne another child while they lived somewhere else,” Spusscio said. “Ilena would be Miquain’s cousin and a year or two younger.”

  “I know the story told in the vale about us,” I say. “It begins, ‘They came at the end of the long winter.’”

  Spusscio sighs, and Belert’s face falls.

  “Is that a problem?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Spusscio replies. “It was the end of the long winter when Grenna’s child was born; the little boy lived only a day. And so you cannot be Grenna’s daughter.”

  I have feared as much since I asked Ryamen about my name, but I am not ready to talk about it with others. “Grenna is the only mother I’ve known,” I say.

  Beler
t says, “We do not know the truth, Ilena. Grenna was certainly your true mother, though another may have borne you. The important thing for our purpose is that you are Moren’s daughter. And no one who sees you can doubt that relationship. You look like him.”

  Spusscio says, “As Moren’s daughter, Ilena is granddaughter to Gwlech and Fergus just as Miquain was.”

  “What did Moren tell you before he died?” Belert asks.

  I think back to the house on the slope of the Vale of Enfert, to the time when Moren lay ill. I try to remember every word, every pause. “He said, ‘We planned to go together but Grenna …’ He stopped there. Then he said, ‘It is time, we must go.’”

  “Is that all?” Spusscio asks.

  “He said, ‘Go to Dun Alyn. Find Ryamen.’” My eyes are wet with the recollection, but my throat is dry from speaking. I raise my flagon and sip the last drops of ale. I can hardly stay awake now that I’m warm and fed.

  Belert stares out the window. At last he turns to us.

  “We must decide how to move against Ogern. And”— he smiles at me—“we must let Ilena rest soon.”

  “Ogern will challenge us. He has been planning this for a long time,” Spusscio says.

  “Yes,” Belert agrees. “And he has allies. The band that struck the fortress was well prepared, as was the one at the fork with Resad.” He turns to me and speaks in a solemn voice. “How say you, Ilena? Are you willing to fight for Dun Alyn?”

  I remember the hostility in the Great Hall, the chants for my death, the blazing hatred in Ogern’s eyes. I survived Resad’s ambush only because Dun Alyn’s war band arrived when it did. And the terrors of the cage in the Oak Grove! If Ryamen had not come to my aid …

  Moren traveled here year after year, always returning to the West to help Grenna raise me. They spoke of this life, trained me to be a warrior, taught me the stories and customs of Dun Alyn. I know how they would advise me.

  “Yes,” I say. “I will fight for Dun Alyn.”

  Belert looks me full in the eyes from across the table. “It may not be a successful battle. Ogern has raised a following. I do not know how many will remain loyal to me.”