Arawn finished buckling his belt while Ralf held his cloak and the habitual worries cascaded through Arawn’s mind in an endless cycle. He leaned against the washstand, drawing a deep breath.
“My lord?” Ralf asked, puzzled.
Let this marriage be the one! Arawn recalled the dust-caked and mud-daubed woman he’d brought back here. Real spirit lived beneath the dirt and the masculine clothes.
Although, what did it matter how she looked, or what her nature was? He trusted Uther’s judgment when it came to measuring a woman. Uther said she met the criteria. It was all that was needed.
He didn’t care who she was, although others in the kingdom might find her true parentage a comfort in the face of this hasty marriage. It would help her find acceptance.
Although, did it matter if she was accepted by his people? Once, he might have worried about such matters. He could no longer afford the luxury.
Arawn straightened and took the cloak from Ralf. “Tell Stilicho I am coming and to bring the priest.” He fastened the cloak himself. “Oh, and he must bring the girl, too.”
“Girl, my lord?”
“Ilsa.” Such an odd name.
Ralf knew better than to demand explanations of him. He hurried away. He would likely interrogate Stilicho and learn what he wanted from the slave. Ralf was good at staying ahead of rumors.
Arawn’s comb was missing. He smoothed his fingers through his hair and called it done.
Such a lack of preparations for his own wedding should have bothered him more than it did. There was a perverse satisfaction in treating the occasion with off-hand indifference. He had treated none of his previous marriages so casually. Maybe, if he did everything the exact opposite of how he behaved in the past, it would change the outcome of this marriage.
At the least, it saved him effort and worry. Both were already in plentiful supply.
He moved back through the house. Muted hysteria sounded as residents and servants and slaves prepared for the wedding and their much-delayed supper, which was to follow.
It was bright to the point of dazzling in the reception hall. All the lamps were lit and the sconces all burned. The fire pit at the front of the hall blazed, filling the cavernous, open-ended room with warm air. The ancient hypocaust did not serve this area of the house.
The house once belonged to a great Roman family, who fled back to Rome when the legions left. Many British kings’ houses once belonged to Romans. This house had been the main country residence of the family. It was built with the best Roman skills and designs now lost to Britain. Despite the house being more than a hundred years old, the hypocaust still worked well.
Arawn considered the fire pit at the front of the hall, where the flames danced. The fire pit had been his father’s innovation. The square pit was once a pool where rain collected through the matching vent in the roof, overhead. The last time his father slipped on the wet tiles around the pool, he ordered the roof be filled in and the pool used as a fire pit. “Flames can welcome my guests. This is Lesser Britain, not that godless hellhole in the east. Warmth is a better gift than water!”
Until these last few years, Arawn appreciated the warmth the flames generated whenever he stood in the chilly hall to greet dignitaries and diplomats. Now, though, he would give up the fire in a heartbeat, to have the pool with its fresh rainwater returned. Only, it had not rained for nearly a year and the pool would have long been emptied and dry.
The household was gathering in the hall, facing the hastily set up table serving as an altar. No one, not even Stilicho, who seemed to know everything, was sure what religion or gods the holy man followed. Therefore the table was laid with a clean linen cloth and candles and nothing else.
It was another break with custom. On previous occasions, to appease the mostly Christian people of his kingdom, Arawn had been married by a Christian priest. Only, the nearest true Christian priest ordained by their God was a day’s ride away.
The holy man, though, was revered and thought to be touched by at least one god and had agreed to perform the marriage. He would do.
Stilicho’s head appeared above the crowd. The people separated to let him and the holy man through, the buzz of their conversation halting.
The man was ancient, bent and wrinkled. He shuffled, rather than lift his rag-covered feet. Someone had trimmed his beard since he arrived. The silver fringed his jaw and hid his wattled neck. His hair was combed and tied back. It made the man’s eyes stand out. They were a proper Celtic black while lit from within with fire and passion that was the province of much younger men. For now, he seemed to have all his senses about him and his gaze fixed up Arawn with steady assessment as he approached.
Arawn nodded at him. “They fed you, old man?”
“The salted mutton was excellent, thank you, my lord. Are you ready to embrace your future?” The question was sharply put.
Arawn blinked. He was used to vague wandering murmurs from the man, which was all he’d spoken, the few times they had met. Arawn was still unsure of the man’s name. He only knew the man lived beside and took care of the chapel in the woods. Some said the chapel was the most holy place in the kingdom after the enchanted heart of Brocéliande.
“I am ready, yes,” Arawn said, surprised into the blunt truth. The question stamped upon the hard knot of determination in his gut formed from the day’s misadventures.
“And your bride, my lord?” the man asked.
“She comes,” Stilicho murmured.
From the front of the hall came a whisper, like the stir of a sea breeze announcing the approaching end of the day.
Heads moved, people shuffled and shifted, forming a curving aisle through them. Along the curve walked Evaine and Elaine with their two companions and a third whom Arawn did not recognize.
The strange woman walked in front of all of them. She used one hand to lift the front of her gown as she walked. Arawn took in the pleasing curves of her hips and waist and the lift of her chin, the blue of her eyes…and drew in a sharp breath.
This was Ilsa.
He examined her, his heart hurrying a little faster. She was not tall. He thought Elaine, who was yet to reach her full height, was already taller. No wonder they’d thought Ilsa to be a boy, this morning! She would grow no more. Her figure was full, in all the right places and in pleasing proportion to the rest of her. The dress must belong to one of Arawn’s sisters. Elaine’s, he suspected. It was one of their creations designed to entice a man with a simplicity that kept a man’s gaze on their figure. He’d seen grown men, old men, wise men, all trip and stammer when in his sisters’ presence.
The simple brown gown Ilsa wore was of the same magical type and on her, Arawn appreciated its power.
Her red gold hair swept up beneath a simple gold circlet, to tumble and curl down her back in riotous waves that Arawn longed to thrust his fingers into. She wore no veil. No cloak disguised the strength in her squared shoulders. Her gaze was upon him.
Arawn used the hand she could not see to tug his robe into place. Perhaps he should have looked harder for the comb.
Her jaw was fine and clear, her chin pointed and her eyes wide. Now he knew who her father was, Arawn could see Budic’s features in her face. Her eyes were the same pale blue of a hot summer’s day, rimmed with black and mesmerizing when trained upon a man, as she was doing to him now.
Arawn cleared his throat and turned to face the holy man as she stepped up alongside him.
The holy man gazed at Ilsa for a long, silent moment. “Ah…!” he breathed, as if he only now understood something he did not care to explain. Then he raised his hands for silence. “Arawn, King of Brocéliande and Ilsa, princess and daughter of Budic.”
A soft intake of breath sounded. Whispers.
Who had given her sire’s name to the holy man? Arawn had not told Stilicho, and everyone who traveled with him today knew the value of discretion. If he learned it was one of them…
“You have agreed to be united in marri
age,” the man continued. “Does anyone here dispute the match, or know it to be unholy in the eyes of any god known to man?”
No one spoke loudly or called out, although the whispers continued.
The holy man nodded, as if he expected no objections. “Then, Ilsa of Morbihan, you swear you enter this marriage of your own free will, to obey the laws of this land and its king, to serve its people and its gods faithfully?”
Ilsa swallowed. Arawn saw her throat work, the fine flesh there moving. Her skin, which had been covered in a fine gray dust all day, he could now see was soft and unlined.
“I swear,” she whispered.
“King Arawn, do you swear you enter this marriage of your own free will, to obey the gods and serve your people and protect them, including your wife?”
As it was the only reason he stood here, Arawn nodded. “I swear.”
Again, the man nodded as if he expected nothing less. “The gods find this a pleasing arrangement and approve the union. I name thee Queen Ilsa of Brocéliande, mate of King Arawn of Brocéliande. May the union be blessed by all gods.”
There was a tick of silence, as everyone struggled to absorb that the wedding was done. The Christian priests took far longer to sanctify a marriage, with prayers and beseechments to heaven and threats to husband and wife if they dared stray from the true path.
Short as they were, these were far more truthful vows. Arawn turned toward Ilsa, who was staring at the holy man, her eyes wide with shock.
Arawn picked up her hand. It was tiny in his and cold. He bent her fingers over the side of his and lifted her hand to his mouth. She looked up at him, startled.
“Thank you for this,” he murmured and kissed her hand.
She smelled of lavender. His body tightened.
Until this moment, he had given no thought to the night ahead and the duties to be performed.
At the least, bedding the woman would be pleasurable. Pleasure was not something he had expected. Now, he could think of nothing else.
Chapter Eight
The big, heavy door closed on the last of the servants and slaves, leaving Ilsa alone in the airy, high-ceilinged room. A small brazier burned in the corner, with a tray beneath to catch ash and coals. The floor was of dark tiles, big and square, covered in furs. The walls were dark green.
An enormous chest sat against the wall beneath the window and a cupboard holding the king’s clothes stood against the adjoining wall. At least, Ilsa presumed it held his clothes. It was not a very large cupboard for a king. Surely he had more clothes than that single compartment held?
The front half of the room, which held the closed door, was well lit by the brazier. The rest of the room lay hidden behind a wooden screen.
She moved to the screen which divided the room. The screen was made of wood carved into little squares, connected only at the corners. An artisan must have spent weeks making it. The wood was smooth against her fingers as she gripped the edge and peered around it at the bed on the other side.
It was enormous. She had never seen a larger one in her life. Her sleeping shelf would fit across the width of the bed five or more times, she was sure.
There were furs on the bed, too, and cushions and bolsters. Someone had arranged the cushions and bolsters in a pleasing fashion. Ilsa was certain it had not been Arawn to take such pains with the arranging. She suspected that the smaller matters of life rarely captured his attention.
The bed had bottom and top ends which rolled out and over themselves in a fashion that reminded Ilsa of the couches everyone sat upon in the dining room—the triclinium, she had discovered during the meal. There had been few chairs. Instead, low divans and couches sat on either side of the even lower tables. Some couches had arms similar to the bed, curving outward in gentle arcs.
The large bed took up most of the space on this side of the divider.
With a start, Isla realized she was expected to be waiting in the bed when Arawn arrived. Only, she had nothing to wear but what she was standing in.
She looked down at her left hand. The ring on her third finger was too large. Throughout the meal it slipped and turned and fell off. Arawn had pulled the ring off his own hand and pushed it onto her finger when she sat to his right on the same divan as him. The ring gleamed, a dull golden color, with a thick band and a flat face upon which an amber stone with orange striations glowed. “This was a gift from my father,” Arawn told her. “He said it came from Rome itself. I have worn it since then. You must wear it now.”
Everyone watched as Ilsa stammered her thanks. No one reached for the meat and dishes sitting steaming on the tables.
“They wait for you, as do I, on this night,” Arawn said.
Ilsa’s face flushed hotly. No one had ever waited for her to begin a meal. She had not known why they watched her. She reached for a peach, certain she could not eat anything else. The meat did not smell the way she was accustomed to meat smelling. None of the other dishes were familiar to her. Fruit was safe and this would be the last of the season, too. The peach was small, barely filling her hand, as all fruit had been this year.
She reached for the knife which always lived in her belt. Her belt was empty. The knife was bundled with her muddy hunting clothes and now she did not know where it was.
As everyone else, including Arawn, reached eagerly for the dishes and hacked off meat from the haunch in the center of each table, conversation sprang up around them.
Servants filled the cups in front of each diner with a thin wine. Ilsa sipped at it. She was surprised to taste a wine no different from what her village made. As she picked at her peach and struggled to keep the heavy ring on her finger, the chatter rose around her. No one engaged her in conversation, for which she was grateful. Even the king leaned to his other side to speak to the man there.
It gave Ilsa time to absorb the differences in this room, and the abrupt change which had brought her here.
Queen Ilsa of Brocéliande. That really was her. She was sitting beside the king…her husband.
This morning, she had set out to hunt for meat and her only worry had been to return with food by the end of the day.
Now she was a queen…and expected to save everyone in the kingdom by bearing the king’s child.
Ilsa put the other half of the peach down on the plate in front of her, unable to finish it. She could not bring herself to look at Arawn, either. When Stilicho bent over her shoulder and murmured that she should depart for her chamber now, Ilsa rose to her feet, anxious to be away from the big room. She wanted to be out among the trees, where she could think. She wanted silence, so she could hear her own thoughts.
Instead, Stilicho and three of the women servants led her through a series of rooms with beautiful walls and furniture, to a room guarded by two armed soldiers. “The king’s antechamber,” Stilicho announced, then swept across the big room. It was empty of everything but an enormous desk with stacks of wax tablets upon it. He pushed open a heavy curtain hanging across a flat archway, revealing another room beyond this one. He waved her inside.
Ilsa stepped inside. Her heart hurried, while the women lit the brazier and another smaller lamp now burning over the big bed.
Then they left her here.
Ilsa fingered the heavy ring on her hand, turning it over and over, so the yellow stone flashed in the light from the lamp overhead.
She didn’t feel like a queen. She felt nothing except a yearning to be back in her little cottage in the woods beyond Brandérion.
What if she was not the one to save these people? She would die, in that case.
She curled her fingers into a fist, trapping the ring inside.
The door to the chamber opened and closed softly.
Ilsa whirled, her heart leaping, as Arawn moved into the middle of the room. He watched her with narrowed eyes. His lips were full. She had not noticed until this moment, perhaps because he usually held his mouth stiffly, thinning them unnaturally. His nose was straight and proud. His face had n
o scars or battle wounds.
“You are not ready,” he said. “Is it you are ignorant of the acts of marriage?”
Ilsa licked her lips. She was not as ignorant as some of the village girls had been about such matters. Ilsa learned much from observing animals in the forest and from her own parents. It was a small cottage and when they thought her asleep, they had come together as a man and wife. There was little Ilsa did not know about such matters. Until this moment, though, she had not applied them to herself.
She gripped a fold of the dress. “I have nothing else to put on.”
He didn’t smile or frown. “You have no need for anything else.” He reached for the buckle on his belt. “Remove your clothes.” He unfastened the belt and dropped it to the ground.
Ilsa’s face heated. She swallowed, her heart skidding and thudding.
For the sake of my village, my parents…everyone. She whispered it silently in her mind. With a convulsive movement, she jerked the woolen gown up and over her head. The folds of fabric dislodged the circlet in her hair and she tugged it free, too. She looked around for somewhere to put the garment, only the chest was behind Arawn.
Instead, she dropped them to the ground, right beside the screen.
Arawn removed only his belt. The red, long robe hung straight from his shoulders. His eyes narrowed again. “The rest,” he murmured. His voice seemed strained.
Ilsa smoothed her hand over the linen shift, then bent and untied her shoes and removed them.
Arawn made a hissing sound. She looked up, startled. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. He waved toward her shoes. “The rest.”
She pulled the shift up, gathering it in her hands, then pulled it off and dropped it onto the pile of brown wool at her feet. Naked, she stood in the space between the edge of the screen and the wall and fought not to cover herself with her arms.
Arawn did not move for many heart beats. His gaze lingered on her and Ilsa trembled.
Dragon Kin Page 8