“The king would…would…he would not allow it.” Ilsa could imagine the flood of fury in Arawn’s face and the working of his jaw, if anyone dared suggested the queen fight among the ranks of his soldiers.
Ilsa asked Eseld to find cloth which would drape as Gwen’s gowns did. She arranged the making of several dresses, including one for Evaine’s wedding, which Arawn had arranged as swiftly as messengers could travel between the two kingdoms.
Arawn had returned to the silent, detached king Ilsa had always known. She didn’t know how he felt about Nimue’s revelations and hints and her wild prophecy about the far future, for he did not speak about any of it. Nor did he tell her about the setting of the wedding for the autumn equinox. Stilicho had shared it in his usual morning reports.
The distance might have remained in place forever, if not for Gwen’s shocking, mind-stretching conversations about the power of a woman over a man and the activities of the bedchamber…and a headache.
THERE WERE FEW DAYS left before the large traveling party would set out for Guannes. Preparations reached a frantic peak.
Travel was chancy for any well-ladened group. There had always been thieves and robbers lurking on lonely roads. The military might of Rome had suppressed most. With Rome gone and the Saxons raiding lands almost monthly, there were more homeless and hungry men willing to risk much to feed their families and themselves. There were also Saxons, cut off from their tribes and trying to reach home, far to the north, who were just as desperate for food and water.
As the rains lessened, the homeless learned to work in bands. Even large travel parties were not safe, if they appeared to be carrying food and water, or goods and trinkets which could be bartered for both. The brigands were also drawn to the tools of pillage—swords and knives, axes and spears and the armor that would protect them, along with the horses the armed men sat upon.
Arawn’s group would include women. They were taking Evaine to her wedding, along with her trousseau and the supplies needed to undergo the four-day journey. They could only travel as fast as the slowest cart and they would not be going by the most direct route. To compensate for the inherent vulnerability of the group, a large contingent of armed soldiers would travel with them, which required carrying even more supplies.
Arawn chose the route to use the still-good Roman road, the Via Strata, which ran through his lands to Vannes where Budic wintered, then on to Guannes, south of Morbihan. To reach the Roman road would take a whole day of traveling east through the forest of Brocéliande.
At least, that had been Arawn’s plan, until he received a message from Nimue, two days before they were ready to leave, which upset everything.
Ilsa only learned of the upset that night when Arawn came to her chamber after supper.
As the nights grew cooler, Ilsa wore a simple open robe while she waited for his arrival, which she could wrap closed to keep warm, then discard when he appeared.
That night, though, Arawn did not stride into the chamber as he normally did. He closed the door, his head bent, and latched it so the iron lever did not drop into place with the soft thud it usually gave.
Ilsa was already on her feet. She paused with her hands at the opening of her robe, watching him.
Arawn took slow steps. She could see his face if she bent a little, for he was still watching the floor. His eyes were squinting, nearly closed. He almost kicked the stool in front of him before veering off.
He halted, his hand out, as if he was dizzy or trying to stop…something. Then, with a groan, he sank onto the stool and gripped his knees. His knuckles were white.
“What is wrong? My lord?” Ilsa moved over to the stool. She reached out to touch his shoulder to gain his attention. She stopped her hand short, not sure if her touch would exacerbate whatever ailed him. Instead, she sank down so she could look up at him. “Arawn,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. Slowly. “A headache,” he whispered. “Sometimes, they come upon me this way.”
Ilsa had heard him shouting in the antechamber, earlier that day. He had been irritable at supper, too, and drank far more than usual. “Then you have had them before,” she surmised.
He hissed and his fingers squeezed. “Of all the times… I have too much to do! Nimue and her supercilious demands! Now I must adjust everything…” He winced and held still, breathing hard.
Ilsa did not understand what he was talking about. “What did Nimue do?” she asked.
“It is nothing,” he said, squeezing his temples with one hand, his eyes closed.
The same blank wall as usual.
Men don’t always understand what they need. Gwen’s voice. They don’t know how comforting a haven from the day’s worries can be until you show them.
Ilsa rose to her feet and tied the robe closed with the ties beneath her breasts, then reached for Arawn’s arm. It was iron hard beneath her fingers. Was his whole body clenched as tightly? No wonder his head ached!
“Come here,” she said. “Slowly, rise to your feet. I will guide you to the bed. You can lie down and close your eyes. Come.” She tugged.
“I should go back. There are rosters and lists…” He got to his feet.
“You can return later,” Ilsa told him. “Take a moment. Let this pass, then you will be stronger and fit to work again. Just close your eyes for a few minutes.” She guided him around the stools and over to the bed one slow step at a time as she spoke. When the back of her legs connected with the bed, she moved out of the way and pulled the covers aside.
“The bed is right before you,” she told him. “Reach out to find it.” She picked up his hand. “Here.” He let her guide his hand to the mattress. She pressed it against the sheet. He was already hunched over by the pain. He spread his fingers on the sheet then knelt on it. Then, with a hiss, he lowered himself onto the bed.
Ilsa slid a cushion beneath his head as it came down.
Arawn put his hand over his eyes. “The lamp!” he whispered. “It hurts…”
Ilsa hurried over to the low work table and blew out the flame on the lamp. It was the only light in the room and without it, the room fell into deep shadow, broken only by moonlight in the windows overhead.
Arawn sighed. His hand dropped back to the mattress.
Ilsa loosened the ties on his boots, then eased them from his feet. She dropped the covers over him.
“I must…” he murmured.
“In a moment,” she assured him. “Relax awhile, first. Tell me about Nimue. What did she do to vex you so?” She moved around the bed and onto it, careful not to jog the bed and disturb him. Because it was cool, she pulled the covers over her knees. “What has Nimue done?” she added, coaxing him.
He made a growling sound of frustration in the back of his throat, then winced and held still.
“She is your subject,” Ilsa said. “Can you not ignore her demands?” It was a guess, put together from the few words he had already spoken.
“Not if I want to avoid yet another curse on my land,” Arawn said with a sigh. “The relationship between the king and the Lady has always been…cooperative. She is too powerful to treat as any other subject. As long as the king and Lady get along, then all is well.”
He had told her. He had actually spoken the words and shared his thoughts.
Her heart racing, Ilsa said softly, “What are her demands, then?”
“They make no sense!” he hissed. “Everyone must travel by horseback, even the women. The goods, the food, the packs, must also go on hoof. No carts! No litters!”
“Did she explain why we must travel that way?” Ilsa asked.
“No!” He hissed again and closed his eyes. She could see a pulse beating in his throat and in his temples. Was that beat echoing in his head? Throbbing?
“Now I must find horses gentle enough for ladies when we have spent a generation raising war stallions,” he said. “In two days! It is impossible. Then there is the governor’s letter, which will not help bring joy to the wedding…�
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“The governor?” Ilsa prompted.
For a long moment, Arawn did not answer. Ilsa thought that perhaps he would not, that his largesse and sharing had come to a quick halt. Then he sighed. “Two years ago, the British leaders—not Vortigern, but the Pelagians and leaders of the west, including all of us in Lesser Britain—signed a letter and sent it to Aetius, the Roman governor of Gaul, asking for military assistance. His reply arrived last month. I got word of it today. Aetius bids us to turn to our own defenses for he is too busy dealing with a Hun called Attila.”
“It took him two years to reply?” Ilsa asked, amazed.
“It is as well we looked to our own defenses in the meantime. It was a harsh summer, two years ago. You likely don’t remember it.”
“I remember the villagers muttering about summer storms,” she said. “I thought they meant weather. Perhaps they were alluding to the Saxons, for they spent the summer sharpening spears and swords and none of the children could wander beyond the borders of the village.”
“If Vortigern had not struck his deal with the Saxons, we would not have had such a summer,” Arawn murmured. He took a slow breath. Even in the dark, Ilsa could see the tight lines of his body had relaxed a little.
“What deal did Vortigern strike?” Ilsa asked, even though she thought she could remember her mother and father speaking bitterly about Vortigern’s betrayal of the Britons who supported him.
Arawn told her in slow, spaced sentences, how Vortigern had used Saxon mercenaries, called foederati, to defend the north against barbarian attacks. The summer before the letter had been sent to the governor, Vortigern had moved Cunedda and his sons, the leaders of the Saxons in the north, to northwest Wales to defend western Britain against the Irish. When he had tried to send the Saxons back north of the walls after repelling the Irish, the Saxons had refused. They liked the milder clime in the south and the rich, arable land.
Hengist, leader of all Saxons in Britain, invited his son, Octha, to sail to Britain with as many warriors as he could gather. Octha arrived with sixteen ships filled to the brim with warriors and their families keen to fight.
“Vortigern fought them to a standstill,” Arawn said, stifling a yawn. He no longer held his head. “It won a single summer of peace, then they came back twice as hard. Now Britain fights every single year to hold the lands we still call ours. Vortigern thought bringing Saxons into Britain to fight the Irish and the Picts in the north would cure Britain’s ills. Instead, his cure is a curse.” Arawn paused. “I wonder if Vortigern walks the room at night as I do?”
Ilsa focused upon his words. The Picts in the north. Were they Gwen’s people? They must be. Gwen spoke of her father, their king, no longer having a kingdom to call his own. If Vortigern had unleashed the Saxons upon them and now the Saxons lived north of Hadrian’s Wall, then the Picts must have been driven from those lands.
They would consider both the Saxons and Vortigern their enemy. Now the daughter of their king lived in Lesser Britain. She had been taught by the most powerful woman in Britain, here in the land where Ambrosius lived and prepared to take back his country.
“Would the Picts be allies to Ambrosius now?” Ilsa asked Arawn, keeping her voice soft.
He didn’t answer.
She listened to his slow, steady breath and smiled. He had fallen asleep.
Ilsa pulled the blanket up to cover him and burrowed under them herself and settled to sleep. It was the first night since arriving in Lorient she fell asleep immediately.
ARAWN WAS STILL ASLEEP when Ilsa woke to the cheery sound of blackbirds and robins in the vines outside the windows, and the soft morning call of a tawny owl, farther away.
She eased from the bed and crept about the room, selecting a gown to wear for the day and dressing swiftly, for it was cold in the room. She cracked the ice on the washing bowl and washed her face.
“Gods above…” Arawn murmured from the bed.
Ilsa turned. “You fell asleep.”
“I can never sleep when the ache arrives,” he muttered. He pushed aside the covers and rose in slow increments to a sitting position, pausing with each few inches.
He straightened and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. “Nothing…” he breathed.
“The headache is gone?”
“Completely.” He bent and reached for his boots and pushed his feet into them and fastened them, still wearing the puzzled frown. “How late is it?” he demanded.
“Shortly after dawn,” Ilsa replied.
“I must…Stilicho will be waiting…” He moved toward the door, still frowning.
“My lord…?”
Arawn paused. His brow lifted.
“The horses for the ladies, for the journey…”
“What of them?”
“Use whatever horses are to spare, my lord. Even if they are war stallions.”
His frown deepened. “For women?”
“I have something in mind, my lord. I will arrange it these next two days. You should meet the Lady’s demands. Arrange for horses for everyone. I will take care of the rest.”
Arawn’s gaze moved over her face and her gown. It was the new blue one which Gwen said matched the color of Ilsa’s eyes. It trailed at the back, in a way that had taken Ilsa a day to get used to.
“What are you planning?” he demanded.
“I want to surprise you. May I?”
Arawn considered. “I suppose there is no harm in it. No matter what, we must all ride horses as requested, even if your plans do not work. Very well.”
He opened the door just as Gwen reached for the handle. In her other hand she carried a tray holding breakfast oats and a steaming cup of wine. She gasped and stepped out of the way and sank into a curtsey. “My lord.”
Arawn nodded as he crossed the corridor to his own chambers.
Gwen stepped into the room and shut the door, looking at Ilsa speculatively. “He stayed the night?”
“He did.”
Gwen smiled. “Very good, my lady.”
“More than you know yet,” Ilsa said. She settled on the stool and picked up the bowl, suddenly starving, while Gwen collected the comb and came back to work on her hair. “We have two days of hard work ahead of us, Gwen.”
“Oh? Do tell!”
Ilsa outlined her plan.
Chapter Twelve
That evening after supper, Ilsa hurried back to her chamber and made final preparations for the part of her plan she had not shared with Gwen in the morning. She changed quickly, putting on the heavy robe with the fur trim, for warmth. She loosened her hair, so it hung freely. The tray was on the table as she requested.
She sat upon a stool, facing the door. It didn’t take long.
Arawn strode in as usual, his gaze turned inward as he chased his own thoughts. It was a common expression for him. He focused on her and stopped short. Then he turned and shut the door. “What’s this, then?”
Ilsa picked up the still-steaming jug. “Mulled wine, my lord. Will you join me for a cup and conversation before we…before we couple?”
Irritation flickered across his eyes. His gaze shifted to the door.
“Last night was so educational and relaxing, for me,” Ilsa said. “Just from the little you told me, much was revealed to me about the affairs of men. And I…” She ducked her head, as if she was embarrassed. “I have never slept as well as I did last night.” It would remind him of his own sleep.
Arawn relaxed. “I, too,” he admitted, his tone rough. “Very well. A small cupful will do no harm.” He sat on the stool opposite hers and took the cup she poured. “Thank you.”
She lifted her own toward him, then sipped. She had quickly learned to enjoy mulled wine, here in Lorient. In the village, wine was not as common as ale and women and children did not drink ale. The herbs Arawn’s kitchen staff used to heat and flavor the wine were rare, too.
Ilsa had discovered the kitchen staff kept a tiny garden plot at the back of the house. They us
ed left over liquids and scraps from cooking to water and feed the herbs they grew. The herbs had thrived despite the lack of rain. Because of them, she was allowed this lovely indulgence.
Arawn sipped. “Mm… Very good. It has been a long time since I had this. My mother used to make me drink it as a boy, to make me sleep.”
“That was my thinking, too,” Ilsa admitted. “That it would help me relax and sleep better.”
Arawn did not ask why her sleep was disturbed. Perhaps he thought he knew. Or perhaps he didn’t care.
Ilsa said carefully, “How did your planning for the journey go, today? Did you find the horses you need?”
Arawn rubbed at his hair and stretched his shoulders. “Better than I thought it would,” he admitted. “If I am free to use war horses as needed, then it will not be as difficult to arrange as I feared.”
“If there are no carts, cannot the whole party move faster than usual?”
He nodded. “There is that, too.”
Ilsa thought of another question to ask him which drew him out, while they drank their small cup of wine each. Arawn lapsed into introspective silences, caught in his own thoughts, unused to airing them aloud. Each additional question coaxed him to speak again.
Finally, he drained the cup and put it on the table and stood. “This stool is most uncomfortable,” he remarked, glaring at it. He reached for his belt.
“Let me, my lord,” Ilsa said, getting to her feet. She moved around the little table to stand in front of him, her heart thudding. With awkward movements, for she had never done this service for a man before, she unwound the long end of the belt and unknotted it, then slid the buckle loose. The belt dropped away.
Arawn’s chest rose and fell more quickly than usual. He remained still, though, as she gripped the bottom of his robe and pulled it over his head. His leather trews, which he wore now the cooler weather had set in, mounded over the congestion at his thighs.
Ilsa’s heart beat quickly and not for any reason she could understand.
She removed the long-sleeved undershirt and stared at Arawn’s flesh. She couldn’t remember looking at his chest before, not like this. A deep pink scar ran along his left shoulder. She only realized she had reached out to touch it when she felt the ridge of tissue beneath her fingertip.
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