Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

“The oil will help with the frizz, too,” Yasmine said. She unstopped the jar and poured the contents into her hand. It was a pale green oil. “Your hair,” she added, cupping the oil in her palm.

  Ilsa hurried to pick up her hair and wind it up into a coil she could hold on the top of her head.

  Then Yasmine smeared the oil along Ilsa’s other arm, for the full length. She worked the oil in, her fingers kneading. Frida did the same to Ilsa’s back and all the way down to her feet, while Yasmine moved around to her front and repeated the application of the oil. Frida asked Ilsa to swap her hands and rubbed in the oil down the length of her other arm, including her fingers and even the fingernails.

  “Normally, bath slaves would do this service,” Yasmine said. “They have all been assigned other duties until the bathhouse is properly open for everyone once more.”

  “You are not slaves?” Ilsa asked, the question popping out before she could consider the wisdom of such bluntness. She didn’t want to offend anyone. Not until she understood who everyone was. She didn’t know if it was impolite to ask directly if one was a slave.

  Yasmine laughed. “Of course, we are!”

  “You sit with the princesses, and you wear…you don’t wear tunics.”

  Frida shook her head. “We have earned our status,” she said quietly. “Yasmine knows mathematics, geometry and…and...” She frowned.

  “Engineering,” Yasmina supplied. “Although, I am valued more because I can read and write.”

  “What earned you your favored status, then?” Ilsa asked Frida.

  “Frida knows seven languages,” Yasmine said.

  “You caught Prince Uther’s eye,” Ilsa said to Yasmine.

  “That did help,” Yasmine admitted, her smile not slipping. “You, though, can hunt,” she added, speaking to Ilsa.

  “And slip in mud,” Frida finished. She picked up the silver scythe-like tool and lifted Ilsa’s arm. “Hold still.”

  Ilsa caught her breath and held it, wondering what happened now. Frida laid the smooth edge of the scythe against her arm and scraped it down her body. Ilsa watched the oil gather on the flat side of the tool, then run to the point and drip to the floor. Where the blunt blade had scraped, Ilsa’s flesh was smooth and clean.

  Frida repeated the long stroking motion all over her body. Once she had finished with Ilsa’s back she said, “You can let go of your hair now.” Ilsa let it drop and it brushed her buttocks. Dried tendrils scraped there and she shuddered at the touch.

  She was not completely clean, yet.

  “This is how the Romans do it, is it not?” she asked.

  “It is very Roman,” Yasmine said. “Although you will learn that Arawn is completely Roman, too. All the great families of Lesser Britain reckon their roots back to Rome itself. Ambrosius’ great grandfather was Macsen Wledig, who was crowned Emperor of Rome. They call Ambrosius the last true great Roman of Britain.”

  “Perhaps with good reason,” Frida said, her tone mischievous once more.

  Yasmine rolled her eyes. “Just because he has not married or had a son does not mean he is Roman in that way. He is busy, working to take back Britain from the Black Dog and win it for Britons everywhere, including us.”

  “Who is the Black Dog?” Ilsa asked.

  Yasmine looked startled. “You’ve never heard of Vortigern?”

  “Not by that name. I know Vortigern is the High King of Britain.” Ilsa remembered her mother and father talking about Vortigern. Neither of them had spoken of him in flattering terms, although never where anyone could hear them. When others were nearby, her parents were polite in their speech about the High King.

  Ilsa had never heard anyone openly disparage the High King the way these two women were. She would have to think about this, later.

  “Now, into the bath,” Yasmine said, as Frida put down the tool. “Ease in slowly, for the hypocaust is kept running all day and night, even when no one is using the bath. It takes too long to heat, otherwise.”

  Ilsa stepped to the low edge of the pool and sat on it and dangled her feet just above the water. “Is it deep?” she asked, for she could not swim.

  “You can stand in it,” Frida told her. She put her hand on the bricks along the edge and jumped into the water, then stood. The water lapped at her upper chest. She rolled her head back, then sank into the water until all but her face was covered. Her arms waved, helping her stay upright

  Encouraged, Ilsa dropped into the water herself. It was hot, almost scalding. She drew in a shocked breath.

  “It will feel comfortable in a few minutes,” Yasmine told her. She moved around the corner of the bath, then climbed into the water using the steps there. She pushed through the water and floated to where Ilsa stood. “Only a few minutes in here, then we must move into the frigidarium.”

  “It is Latin for the cold room. Everyone else just calls it the cold room,” Frida told Ilsa. “Only Yasmine insists upon calling the rooms their Roman names.”

  Cold didn’t sound very appealing.

  Frida worked the water into Ilsa’s hair, getting rid of the last of the mud and the dirt. By the time she was satisfied, Ilsa was more than ready to step out of the hot water. She was being cooked.

  Naked, still dripping water from the pool, the three of them moved through the door in the middle of the long wall. The room on the other side was the mirror image of this one, but cool underfoot. The air was cool, too.

  “Don’t wait!” Yasmine called as she stepped down into the water and pushed off from the steps with a gliding motion.

  Frida jumped in the way she had vaulted into the hot water.

  Ilsa lowered herself to the bricks, then into the water and drew in another shocked gasp. The water was icy!

  “It feels as if it arrived from the peak of a mountain. In a moment, though, you will realize the water is a normal temperature,” Yasmine said. “You must wait for your blood to adjust.”

  Ilsa shivered. She kept herself in the water despite the shivers. After a moment, it did feel warmer. Her heart, which she had been hearing in her head, grew quieter. Her body tingled.

  “Now you can get out,” Yasmine said. She had been watching Ilsa relax as she adjusted to the water.

  They stepped out of the pool and padded, dripping, to the doorway at the end of the long room. Another room lay beyond. When they stepped into it, Ilsa realized they had come full circle. This was the room where they had removed their clothes. Yasmine’s deep yellow cloak sat folded on the bench at the end, beside Ilsa’s muddy hunting clothes.

  Ilsa shuddered at the idea of putting them back on.

  Frida moved over to the bench. “Did Bridget bring…yes, she did.” She bent and picked up a neatly folded pile of rich fabrics. Ilsa could see linen and wool and at the bottom, pale suede.

  On the top, beneath Frida’s hand, was a small mound of gleaming copper. That would be the jewelry Yasmine had instructed the slave, Bridget, to fetch.

  Frida put the clothes on the bench in front of Ilsa. “Would you like me to help you?” Her voice was even, devoid of any judgment.

  Ilsa swallowed. “I suppose you must, for I don’t know where to begin.” Her cheeks heated again. The air in this room, which had been too hot and too damp when she had first stepped inside, now was dry and lukewarm against her skin. The tiles against her feet were warm, too. Both the air and the warm tiles were drying her damp skin without need of a cloth. She remembered that the hypocaust ran under the floor. She had thought a hypocaust was something that heated water, not air. Perhaps it did both.

  Her ignorance was making her feel foolish, especially in front of these highly accomplished women.

  They, though, did not seem to care that she didn’t know what all the layers of clothing were for. Frida put the jewelry aside and the top garment of dark brown. She unfolded the layer beneath, which was the green of pale new spring leaves. Ilsa could see it was linen but of such fineness it matched the tunic Arawn had been wearing. The silky fabric gleamed
.

  “First, the underdress,” Frida said and dropped the gown over Ilsa’s damp hair. Ilsa got her arms up and pushed her hands into the sleeves. This, then, was a garment she understood. She had worn a woolen version of this all her life when she had not been hunting. The wool itched yet it had been warm. Her underdresses had always been the same unvarying shade of undyed off-white that came from a sheep’s back.

  This underdress, though, was gloriously soft against her skin and it stretched, molding itself over her breasts and hips, while still pulling in around her waist.

  Ilsa looked down at the dress, which swept the floor and hugged her wrists, astonished. “How does it do that?” she demanded. “It is impossible. Flax does not stretch in that way!”

  Frida laughed. “It is a trick in the cutting of the garment. Bridget may explain it better. I lack the understanding.”

  “In the cutting?” Ilsa shook her head. “How can cutting a cloth make it give this way?” She pulled at the fabric over her hip and let it go, watching it settle back around her hips once more. She smoothed a hand over the shift, enjoying the color and the texture.

  Frida shook out the dark brown garment and lifted it. “The gown,” she said.

  Ilsa nodded. She realized she did know what the garments were for. She had failed to recognize the basic use of them, too dazzled by their richness and color and fine quality.

  She pushed her arms into the loose sleeves of the gown. The sleeves came down to her wrists and were far wider and longer than the shift beneath. The gown was made of wool as fine as the linen beneath. It was marvelously soft and warm and not at all prickly because of the linen shift between her skin and the wool.

  The neck of the gown came down to a point just above her breasts. The round neckline of the shift showed under it, ending high at the base of her throat.

  A border was embroidered around the neck and sleeves of the dress, in a red gold color that went well with the brown.

  “It does suit her hair, doesn’t it?” Frida said to Yasmine, who was finishing dressing herself.

  This gown, just like the undershift, stretched and moved as she did, making the most of her waist and hips and breasts. The girdle Frida wound around Ilsa’s waist was embroidered cloth, matching the border on the dress. Frida tied it in a knot to hang against her abdomen. The folds of the gown swept the floor.

  “I do believe you are shorter than Elaine,” Frida said, picking up the hem and letting it drop back onto the tiles. “We can turn up the hem later. For now, you will be warm, at least.”

  Ilsa couldn’t recall being so warm and comfortable, or so clean, before this day. Who cared if her hem was too long? Right now, she did not.

  “Worry about the jewelry later,” Yasmine said. “We should move out of the bathhouse so they can shut it down for the night. Supper will be soon. We’ll take her back to our wing and fix her hair there.”

  Ilsa put her hand to her hair. What was wrong with it? It was clean.

  Frida nodded and pushed the green garment to one side and picked up the suede. It was a pair of shoes with laces, delicate and made of suede so soft they laid flat when no foot was in them.

  Frida dropped to her knees in front of Ilsa. “Your foot,” she said, holding out one of the shoes.

  Ilsa lifted the hem of the dress and raised her foot and held it out. Frida slid the shoe into place and tightened the lacing, then tied a bow. There was a stiff layer of suede beneath Ilsa’s foot, which would protect her soles.

  Frida worked the other shoe into place and tied it. Then she reached for her own clothes, tossing them on with a speed that was amazing.

  The green wool she had put aside settled around Ilsa’s shoulders. It was a cloak. The wool was thick and sturdy. It would repel rain. It was very warm.

  Yasmine bundled up Ilsa’s hair and lifted a hood over it. “There’s no need to walk about in the night air with wet hair, for everyone to see,” she said.

  Frida scooped up the jewelry and flexed her shoulders. “Now it is too warm in here. Let’s hurry back. I’m hungry!”

  Yasmine pulled the outside door open and Ilsa drew in a breath as the chilled air of autumn, rich with cooking smells and crumbling leaves, washed over her. She picked up her hems, for the first time in her life unwilling to let them drag in the dirt.

  They moved out of the bathhouse with Yasmine in front of her and Frida behind her. The guard lifted himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, then paused mid-lean. His mouth opened. His dark eyes widened.

  “Holy mother Mary, save me,” he whispered.

  With a start, Ilsa realized he was staring at her.

  “Gavin!” Yasmine snapped.

  He straightened and took out his sword. “This way,” he said, sounding winded. He strode to get in front of them and escort them back to the house.

  They were halfway between the bathhouse and the nearest wing of the house, heading for the big square in the center, when six horses clattered past them and into the square, their hoof-beats echoing against the walls of the house. The riders were outlined by lamps and braziers blazing in the big, open area in the middle of the house, beyond the pillars.

  The room had been enclosed in darkness when Ilsa first arrived. It was not dark now. People gathered there. There were divans and tables and a tall chair with arms and curved feet which four men were lifting and moving to one side.

  “Who is the man on the horse behind Drogan?” Yasmine asked Gavin, the guard.

  “I heard Drogan leaving. He said he was heading out to bring back the holy man from the chapel in the woods.”

  “The mad man? The one who falls down and prophesies?” Frida asked, her tone one of dread.

  “That be the man,” Gavin confirmed. “He looks the part, doesn’t he?” His tone was derisive, for the old man who was being helped down from the back of the big war horse was dirty, his silver hair and beard longer than his arms, and his robe ragged at the hem and knees. He wore no cloak and his bare feet were wrapped in rags which held worn sandals against them.

  Yasmine came to a halt and turned to Frida and Ilsa. She brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Stars and suns!” she whispered. “Arawn intends to marry Ilsa tonight!”

  Chapter Seven

  Arawn’s anger rode upon his shoulder like a black hawk, all the way back to Lorient. The press of business generated by his changed circumstances pushed his temper aside, though. He moved about the house with Stilicho just behind and sent men on errands and gave orders. He was disrupting the routine of supper and sleep, including his own, although no one complained. They would likely vent their frustration once he left. Yet they were doing the work and that was all he asked.

  There were many startled looks, though. Much head and chin scratching greeted his requests.

  Arawn had no time to explain. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to explain what he was doing. After three years he would marry the first suitable woman to appear before him. Reckless? Yes. Foolhardy? Perhaps. Only time would answer if this was a magnificent and wasted gesture, or the salvation of his people.

  He wasn’t sure when his amusement at Uther’s heavy-handed prodding turned into an iron determination to do something—anything—to correct the course of misery his kingdom had been steering for years now. He only knew that somewhere in this long day the discomfort sitting in his belly for more than three years evolved into a grim relentlessness.

  If marrying and getting a child would cure the ills besetting his domains, then so be it. He would marry a dozen women this moment, like the sultans and emperors of the east Yasmine sometimes spoke about, if committing such a Christian sin would break the curse.

  Marrying one woman, though, would offend no gods. Therefore, he would marry, and spit in fate’s eye.

  When the reception hall was cleared and prepared and Arawn called it done, Stilicho looked down at his wax board and cleared his throat.

  Arawn looked at him.

  “Perhaps the lady Ilsa shoul
d be informed about these arrangements?”

  Arawn dropped his arms. “She has not been told, yet?”

  Stilicho smoothed his hand over his bearded chin. “I believe she has been bathing. Now, though, the women have returned. I saw them cross the quadrangle a few minutes ago.”

  Arawn nodded. “Yes, let her know to attend me at once. I will change into…” He looked down at his tunic. It was grimy from a day of sweat and hard riding and now these last minute frantic preparations. He didn’t know what a king was expected to wear to his fifth wedding, although something clean would be the least his bride should expect. “I will change into something else,” he muttered.

  Stilicho bowed and left the hall.

  Arawn moved through the house to his chamber. “Ralf!”

  The cheeky boy who had been tending him for a year hurried into the antechamber. “My lord! I heard! You are to be married.” His eyes were bright and his smile wide. He turned and followed Arawn into the bedchamber itself.

  “Tonight,” Arawn said, yanking off his mantle and tunic. “Has my red robe come back from the fuller’s? And the deer hide boots. Pour me water, please, then fetch the clothes.”

  Warned by his tone, Ralf asked no more questions. He slopped half a pitcher of warmed water into the bowl on the stand then hurried to collect the items Arawn requested.

  As Arawn washed and dressed, he heard men collecting in the antechamber. They would have dozens of questions they must withhold for now. He would see this through, then deal with their concerns. Their troubles would still be there tomorrow. They always were. He could list what most of the complaints would be, anyway.

  Gerrault would be there, to point out that his neighbor, Yeltin, was still harvesting the field at the bottom of the valley despite warnings. Occlim would be there to petition for more water for his ailing village, as if he was more deprived than anyone in the kingdom. There would be fights and squabbles over land and water and cattle and sheep and grain. Each year the water levels dropped, tensions rose and conflicts with them. Arawn’s soldiers were spending far more time on the road patrolling once peaceful villages and small towns, for their presence alone would keep the tensions below boiling point.