She walked a little way from the others, toward the river, imagining herself venturing into the mountains on her quest for rare herbs. She could hear Helen ordering Agatha about as she stooped to pick a plant with small white flowers. She went on a little farther until the rush of the river’s flow replaced Helen’s commands and giggles. She stooped to wash her hands in the clear water, but the wool grease clung to her skin, stubborn as ever. There weren’t many interesting plants by the river, but she picked a few wildflowers and grasses nonetheless. She wondered if she’d have to pretend to put a poultice on Theseus’s wound. The thought made her nervous, but excited too. She’d never touched a boy before—other than her brothers, and they didn’t count.
When she was satisfied she had found enough magic herbs, Klytemnestra gathered the stems in one hand and headed back into the heart of the meadow. But as she drew closer to the place where she had left the others, something felt odd. And then she realized: she could no longer hear Helen’s voice. She lengthened her strides.
As she drew nearer she found she could not see Helen either. Nor Theseus. Nor Agatha. She scanned the meadow, squinting in the light of the lowering sun.
She broke into a run. Panic was rising in her throat now. Stupid, stupid! She should never have left Helen. If anything had happened to her it would be her fault. They were supposed to look after each other. What if a wolf had come? Or a boar? They didn’t usually dare to come so close to the palace, but it wasn’t unheard of. Or what if they had been captured? Taken by slavers or some foreign wanderer seizing the opportunity. Theseus wasn’t old enough to fight off full-grown men.
She thought she must be at the place where she had left them now. Still no sign. She kept running. Suddenly her foot caught on something and she tumbled into the grass.
“Ow!” came a small voice.
Klytemnestra sat up and saw what she had tripped on.
“Agatha? What are you doing lying in the grass? Where’s Helen?”
The slave girl was holding her stomach where Klytemnestra had kicked her. Wincing, she said, “She’s playing with Theseus. He said he was kidnapping her, and he stabbed me—in the game, I mean—and he said I was dead now and I had to lie down and be quiet. I heard them run off, but I don’t know where they went. I was being dead.”
Klytemnestra’s stomach clenched. “You stupid! You can’t let Helen be on her own with a boy!” She jumped up. “We’re going to be in so much trouble,” she moaned, almost to herself.
Agatha’s eyes had grown wide and fearful. Tears started to shine in them. “I’m sorry, mistress, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I was scared of him.”
“Sorry’s no use,” spat Klytemnestra. “We need to find them.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Helen!” She took another lungful of air. “HELENNN!”
She scanned the meadow, turning until she had come full circle. There was no sign of them, or where they might have gone. She started to run—better to look somewhere than nowhere—but stopped after just a few steps.
“It’s no use us running after them. Then we’ll be lost too and no one will know what’s happened. We need to tell my father.”
Tears were running freely down Agatha’s cheeks now. “But we’ll get in trouble,” she whimpered.
“It’s too late for that. Come on!” Klytemnestra grabbed her wrist and ran toward the palace, dragging Agatha behind her.
* * *
Klytemnestra had been locked in her chamber for what felt like hours, though she could tell from the light that the sun had not yet set, so it couldn’t have been very long at all. She wished someone would tell her what was happening. Had Helen been found? Was she all right? She didn’t even have Agatha with her to share her anxiety. Her guilt. Father had kept the slave girl with him when he shut her in here. He had been so angry when they’d told him. No, not angry. Afraid, perhaps. She’d never seen her father afraid before. He had sent Kastor and Pollux out on horses, and half the palace guard on foot too, to look for Helen and the boy.
Time passed. Klytemnestra fiddled with her hair, pulling it, tying it in knots. She sat hunched on the edge of her bed, thinking about all the things that might have happened. Even if Helen and Theseus were safe, Helen was still alone with a boy. Klytemnestra knew what boys did to girls. What men did to women. Thekla had explained it all to her when she had asked why the sheep climb on top of one another. And if that happened to Helen . . . well, she’d never get a good marriage. Klytemnestra felt sick. She had let her sister down. She was usually so responsible. Helen was young and sometimes foolish, but Klytemnestra had always been there to keep her safe. She’d been so stupid today, though. Why had she been so desperate for Theseus to like her? He was just a stupid boy. Helen meant more to her than any boy. More than anyone at all.
She started to cry. Silent, angry tears. Angry at Theseus. Angry at stupid, beautiful Helen. Angry at herself.
Then she heard the door bar being lifted. She quickly wiped the tears from her face and stood up. She hoped with all her heart that Helen was about to walk into the room.
But when the door opened it was Agatha who stumbled through, pushed from behind. She let out a pitiful yelp and then the door was closed behind her. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy. She staggered forward a few steps, then stopped, as if she couldn’t go farther. She stood frozen, steadying herself against the wall with an outstretched hand.
“Agatha?” Klytemnestra asked warily. She could tell something was wrong. The slave girl had been crying when they told her father about what happened. Irritating, fearful tears that she had no time for. But the fear that had filled her eyes then had been replaced by something more unsettling now. A hollowness. Klytemnestra took a step toward her. And another. It wasn’t until she was level with her that she saw it. Illuminated by the flickering lamplight, Agatha’s narrow back was striped with gashes. Streaks of nauseating red burst through her shredded white dress, her shredded white skin. She had been beaten, then. This was what she had been so afraid of.
“Oh, Agatha,” gasped Klytemnestra. She moved to embrace her but stopped as she saw the girl flinch. “I’m so sorry. I should have told him it was my fault too—”
“He knows it was your fault,” Agatha said dully. “That’s why he sent me in here. So you’d see.”
Klytemnestra looked at her, confused.
“He couldn’t beat you,” Agatha murmured. “You’d get scars.”
All at once, understanding rushed upon Klytemnestra, and she hung her head. Her father was punishing her through Agatha. Her stomach turned at the thought of it. He probably beat her harder just to make his point. She needed to see the pain. He wasn’t a cruel man, her father, but he could be cold when he needed to be. And his children’s safety was very important to him.
She wanted to hold Agatha, to bathe her wounds, but she was afraid of hurting her further.
“Do you know anything about Helen?” she asked quietly.
Agatha shook her head, eyes lowered.
More time passed. Occasionally Agatha would whimper, but apart from that the chamber was silent. The two of them sat on Klytemnestra’s bed, waiting. Agatha’s blood was dripping onto the bedcovers, sullying them, but Klytemnestra didn’t care. She took Agatha’s trembling hand in hers.
There was a noise from the corridor. Klytemnestra’s eyes darted to the door. Please let it be good news. Please let her be safe.
When the door opened, it was her father who stood in its light.
“We found her,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling. His brow was creased, his face tired. His eyes flicked to Agatha and away again. He looked sad. He stepped to the side, and there was Helen, looking bright-eyed as ever, if a little sheepish. She trotted into the room and their father withdrew, closing the door behind him.
As soon as the door shut, Klytemnestra jumped up and hugged her sister.
“Wh
at happened? Where did you go? Are you all right?” She looked Helen up and down, searching for signs of injury.
“I’m fine. Theseus and I were just playing. I don’t know why everyone got so scared.” She flicked her hair back from off her shoulders. “He kidnapped me and we found a cave downriver and we hid there.”
“But . . . did he touch you, Helen?” Klytemnestra asked.
“Touch me? That’s what Father wanted to know too. He shook me hard when he asked me. It hurt.” She rubbed her upper arm, frowning.
“But did he, Helen? Did he touch you?”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Yes, he touched me. He held my hand when we ran away from Agatha. And then when we were in the cave he stroked my hair, and . . . and he kissed me,” she said, with a shy smile. She blushed, but there was something else in her expression too. Klytemnestra thought it looked like pride.
“He kissed you?! And . . . and that was it? Nothing else happened?”
Helen looked more worried now, seeing the concern on her sister’s face. “Well, he asked me to sing for him, and I danced too, and then Pollux found us.” She started to get upset. “That was all. He was nice. He kept saying how pretty I was. And now Father has sent him away. I bet it’ll be ages before there’s another boy to play with.”
“Truly, Helen? That was all that happened?” Klytemnestra pressed.
Helen nodded.
“Then all is well.” She sighed with relief, and allowed herself to smile. “Nothing bad has come of it after all.” But as she said it, she remembered Agatha sitting behind her. She wasn’t sure Helen had even noticed she was there.
CHAPTER 2
HELEN
It had been a boring day. In fact, it had been a boring month. Ever since Theseus and his father had gone back to Athens, every day had been the same. The same as it always was. Spinning and spinning the wool until it felt as if her eyes were spinning in her head. And today had been even worse because she hadn’t had Nestra to keep her company. Her sister was finally being taught to use the loom and so Helen had been stuck with Thekla all day. The nurse kept telling her stories, but she’d heard them all before. They were baby stories. Didn’t Thekla realize she was grown up now? She wanted to hear grown-up stories. Real stories. About danger and betrayal and revenge and love. Love most of all. Nestra told her such stories sometimes, but she just made them up in her head.
The afternoon was coming to an end—at least, Helen thought it must be. She’d been in the women’s room for hours. Surely the sun would be going down soon.
“Can I stop?” she asked Thekla.
The nurse’s brow wrinkled as she considered the modest bundles of spun wool piled in Helen’s basket. “Yes, I suppose that’s enough for today.”
Helen looked over to the corner where her sister sat at a loom. A slave stood over her, giving instruction. Helen opened her mouth.
“Your sister’s busy,” said Thekla. “Don’t go bothering her.” The old nurse looked over toward the guard who stood on the other side of the main doorway. Helen’s father had taken to posting one there. “You can ask the guard whether he’ll watch you outside. You could take Agatha if you wanted.”
Helen screwed her face up. Agatha was no fun anymore. She was even quieter now than she had been before and she was always so scared of getting into trouble.
“I don’t want to play with Agatha,” Helen said, but only quietly. The slave girl was just on the other side of the room, and she didn’t want her to hear.
“Well, why don’t you go and sit with your parents? They may still be in the Hearth Hall at this hour. I’m sure they’d want to see you.”
Helen hesitated. She liked sitting on her father’s knee. He would hug her and make her laugh and tell her about all the things going on in the palace. But if her mother was there . . . Helen always felt uncomfortable around her mother. It wasn’t that she was cruel to her. She never was. And sometimes she could be very loving. But other times she would be cool and distant. She would pretend she hadn’t seen Helen when they passed in the palace, even though Helen had caught her eyes as they flicked away. Sometimes she would leave a room when Helen entered, saying she was tired or that she didn’t feel well. A couple of months ago, Helen had found her mother in her usual seat by the hearth, with Nestra sitting beside her. They were spinning wool together, talking and laughing. Helen had wanted so much to join them, but when her mother spotted her she quickly put down her wool and made her excuses. It was like a punch in the stomach. Why couldn’t her mother sit with her as she sat with Nestra? It was as if there was something in Helen that repelled her.
Deciding to take the chance over another hour of Thekla’s stories, she put down her distaff and headed for the door where the guard stood. Perhaps her father would be in the Hearth Hall after all. As she continued past the guard and down the corridor, he followed automatically. It had been annoying at first, not being allowed to wander the palace alone as she used to, but she had grown used to having a shadow over her shoulder.
She was soon outside the hall, which lay at the very heart of the palace, just off the central courtyard. She stopped under the porch before entering and peered through the partly open door. At the far end of the room her father’s throne stood empty. Her heart sank a little. There beside it sat her mother, on her ornately carved chair, the hearth fire burning brightly before her at the center of the room. The only other figure present was one of her mother’s handmaids. The two women were sitting in silence, spinning.
Helen didn’t want to look stupid in front of the guard by turning around and going back the way she had come. And besides, her mother might be in a good mood today. You could never tell. So she took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
Her mother looked up as Helen walked around the circular hearth toward her. And she smiled. Helen let out a sigh of relief and smiled back, quickening her pace.
“Helen, come and sit by the fire with me,” her mother said as Helen was drawing near to her. Such a simple request, but it made her heart lift. This was all she wanted. Her mother was so beautiful, so graceful. Helen just wanted to spend time with her, to please her, to be like her.
There were several stools at the edge of the hall. Helen fetched a low one and pulled it up beside her mother. She left a couple of feet between them, though, not wanting to push her luck.
Helen let out another little sigh as her shoulders relaxed and her lips spread into a contented smile. The Hearth Hall was her favorite room in the palace. The fire at its center meant that it was always light and warm, even at night, and in the daytime the sun’s rays would spill through the square hole in the ceiling, illuminating the bright frescoes that ran around the walls. Scenes of the hunt, of men feasting, of women in sumptuous skirts, all brought to life in a whirl of blue and yellow and red. Helen liked the animals the best, the lion and the boar and the graceful deer, the way they leaped and twisted, wild and beautiful.
Her mother continued with her spinning, lips silent. She eased the rich purple wool from distaff to spindle, coaxing it down through her long, pale fingers. Helen recalled the touch of those fingers on her skin. The soothing coolness of them, the roughness from years of working the wool. A woman’s hands were never still. Even a queen must spin and weave and stitch. But it was the queen who spun the finest wool, who wove the most important cloth. The king’s cloth.
“What are you going to make with that?” Helen asked, looking over at her mother shyly.
“A cloak for your father. A king needs a fine cloak when he rides to war.”
War? Fear spiked in Helen’s chest.
Her mother must have seen it on her face because she said, “Don’t worry, child. Your father just needs to help one of his friends. He won’t be away for long. And the gods will keep him safe.” She gave Helen a reassuring smile, but looked as though she didn’t believe her own words.
“When is h
e going?” Helen asked.
“As soon as he has gathered his men. And as soon as I have finished his cloak,” she added with another small smile.
“Then you must stop!” Helen cried in earnest. “Stop spinning. Don’t weave his cloak for him, then he can’t leave!”
Her mother chuckled quietly. “That is not how it works, Helen. He will still go, cloak or no cloak. But we want him to be warm on his journey, don’t we? And for him to look splendid, so everyone will say, ‘There goes a great king.’”
Helen nodded, but she was scared. She might be young, but she knew how wars worked. Men went and they didn’t come back.
“Now look, Helen, your hair’s all a mess,” her mother tutted. “Whoever arranged it for you this morning didn’t do it tight enough. It’s all coming loose on top.” She motioned to the handmaid behind her, who jumped to her feet. “We can’t have you running about like that. How about you let Melissa redo it for you?”
Helen knew she was trying to change the subject, but nodded obediently. She didn’t recognize the handmaid; she must be new at the palace. She was young and plain-looking, with a round face and a kind smile. Helen straightened her back and soon felt the handmaid’s fingers working to undo her hair.
“Hello, Mistress Helen,” came a chirpy voice from over her shoulder. “So nice to meet you at last. My name’s Melissa. You just let me know if I pull too tight.”
Helen thought her manner a little overfamiliar for a slave, but she quite liked it. So many of them never spoke at all. They were like ghosts.
Her mother was still spinning her wool to Helen’s left. She could just about see the purple-covered spindle as it hovered at the edge of her vision. She kept her head fixed straight ahead, though, so the handmaid could do her work. Despite her fear for her father, Helen was happy. She could feel her mother’s presence beside her as they sat in comfortable silence.
Melissa had finished undoing her hair now and began to run a fine-toothed comb through it. The comb made her head tingle as it brushed her scalp.
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