“Saxon seax,” Arawn said. “When I was fifteen.”
“Was it your first battle?” she asked.
“It was the first injury. I fought better, after.” His voice was low and rough.
Ilsa reached for the ties on his trews and tugged at them. The leather thonging was tied too tightly. She tried again.
“Gods, enough,” Arawn groaned. He gripped her waist, lifted her and carried her backward until her legs connected with the edge of the bed. Arawn dropped her onto the covers, yanked her robe open and lifted her knee up against his hip. With a single tug, he opened his trews, shoved them apart and slid his length into her, with a growl of satisfaction.
Ilsa’s heart was beating far too quickly. Her body tingled. She had never felt such sensations before. Arawn had never taken her this way. She had not before seen his face as he worked his body against hers. The tiny furrow that built between his brows as his pleasure increased. The shift of his muscles beneath his flesh as he moved.
Her breath came more quickly, just as his did. Her body seemed to gather and focus upon where they were joined…
It felt as though she was bracing herself, only not quite like that. It was not at all unpleasant.
Arawn stiffened against her and his eyes closed. His jaw flexed. Ilsa watched the moment of pleasure take him, fascinated.
When he withdrew, his gaze met hers. It shifted again. He moved away and Ilsa caught her breath, for there were more scars on his back and arms she had not seen.
He bent and picked up his clothes and dressed.
Ilsa pulled the robe back over her and sat up, watching him move. She had never watched him in this way. There were many things about him she was seeing for the first time. The scars. The strength of his body and the shape. The color of his skin and the surprising smoothness.
There was a patch of hair, where his chest mounded and bunched when he moved his arms.
The shirt dropped over it, hiding it away.
Ilsa looked up. “Would you like more wine? There is at least one cup left in the jug.”
Arawn picked up the wool cloak he wore inside the house. “No. I have work to do.” He strode to the door and put his hand on it and paused. He looked back at her, his dark eyes not quite meeting hers. “Thank you, though, for the wine. It was a kind gesture.”
He left.
She listened to him stride across the tiles and into his own chambers, already calling for Stilicho and Ralf and for Colwyn, “…if the man isn’t already abed!”
The next day, Ilsa arranged for two of the chairs with arms and backs which stayed in the great hall be moved to her bedchamber. The two stools at the ends of the table she put on either side with the others. During the day, Ilsa used one of the chairs and Gwen the other, while the four older women used the stools as usual.
That night, which was the last night before a dawn start on the journey to Guannes, Arawn entered the bedchamber at his usual fast clip. He took in the chairs and the waiting jug of mulled wine and smiled. “You will need a higher table, my lady, if you intend to keep the chairs.” He sat and took the cup she poured for him. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes, my lord. We finished the arrangements just before supper.”
“I could hear women chattering all afternoon,” he said and drank.
“I apologize, my lord. I was not aware we were making such noise.”
He shook his head. “I could barely hear it above the bellows of the men out in the quadrangle, anyway. I must trust that your plan works, Ilsa. There were few quiet horses for the ladies to use.”
“Whatever you have arranged, it will do.”
Arawn considered her, drained the cup and got to his feet.
Ilsa rose to hers and went to him.
He put her on her back again that night, too.
STILICHO CAME TO WAKE Arawn before dawn. Arawn had already roused. An early blackbird had settled on the roof just above his window and woken him. Instantly the worries and concerns about the coming journey had brought him to full awareness. Not that he had been sleeping soundly, anyway—not the deep, blank sleep of the previous night.
Stilicho’s lamp and the soft sounds he made as he laid out Arawn’s clothes roused Arawn to full wakefulness. He rose and dressed. “Everyone is assembled?” he asked, for Stilicho was already wearing stout traveling clothes.
“Yes, my lord. The women are waiting in the princesses’ day room until the last moment.”
Arawn raised his brow. “I see.” He slid under the heavy cloak Stilicho held out for him, so Stilicho could drop it onto his shoulders, then turned to where Ralf was sitting in the corner with his chin on his fists. “In another few years, I’ll take you with me, Ralf. I need you to watch the house while we’re gone. Understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Ralf muttered.
Arawn hid his smile. The lad would get to ride with the men soon enough and then he would wish himself back at the hearth once more.
He walked out to the quadrangle where the more senior of the men were sitting astride their ladened horses, their breath smoking in the pale first light. The rest of the three dozen strong force waited on the other side of the pond with the pack horses, for there was not enough room for them. The rest of the quadrangle was taken up with horses awaiting their riders, with grooms holding their bridles and trying to contain their restless prancing. It was too cold to keep the animals waiting this way.
Colwyn was holding Silvanus’ reins. Arawn took them from him with a nod of thanks and climbed into the saddle. “Stilicho, stir the women. The horses must move.”
“No need, my lord,” Stilicho said, climbing up into the saddle of the quiet gelding he preferred to use when he was forced aback a horse. He nodded toward the east wing.
The curtain was pulled back from behind the door. Arawn could see lamps blazing. In front of the light came the figures of the retinue of women who would accompany Evaine on her marriage journey. The light was behind them. Arawn could see no details, until they filed out one by one across the verandah, through the opening in the wall and out onto the quadrangle, where the morning light and the torches held by the riders illuminated them.
Ilsa was the first of them. She was leading them.
The officers surrounding Arawn muttered to themselves. Arawn couldn’t hear what they were saying for his attention was upon Ilsa.
The other women spread out behind Ilsa, each heading for a stallion. From the edge of Arawn’s vision he could see them although he couldn’t pull his attention away from Ilsa to look at them. All he could tell was that they were dressed similarly to Ilsa.
Ilsa wore green. Not only was the dark emerald green a good traveling color, but it played well against her hair and her skin. Beyond that, it was difficult to define what she was wearing. Arawn thought it might be a gown, for the fabric fell from her hips in long folds the way a gown did. However, it stopped just short of the ground, on all sides. As she walked, Arawn thought he could see her shoes—boots, he corrected himself, flashing from between an opening in the front of the gown.
The gown had long sleeves. They were not the wide ones women seemed to favor. This gown had tight sleeves which would not impede riding. Over the top of the gown, Ilsa wore a leather jerkin which fitted her body. The jerkin was tied tightly closed, which kept the gown contained and out of the way.
It also defined her waist and hips and breasts in a way no normal gown ever did.
Arawn couldn’t look away. He had seen her body without clothes many times, yet until this moment, he had not been aware it curved so…pleasantly.
She stepped up to the nose of the black stallion and patted it. “Hello, Mercury,” she murmured.
Arawn noticed she wore a belt over the jerkin. It rested on her hips and carried her hunting knife. Her bow was over her shoulder.
Yet this was not the deliberate manly attire she had been wearing in the forest the day he saw her. Ilsa looked every inch a woman, yet every aspect of her attire ap
peared to be practical for traveling.
Ilsa took off the bow and fastened it to a loop on Mercury’s back, beside the packs. Arawn saw the arrow bag hung there, too. She took the reins from the groom and murmured her thanks, then lifted herself up into the saddle just as a man did.
Arawn caught his breath.
Her right foot swept over the rear of the stallion and she dropped into the saddle as light as a feather. The dress split at the waist and flowed with the movement of her legs. Arawn glimpsed leather leggings beneath the flurry of green. Then the dress dropped demurely over each knee, covering her legs.
As Ilsa swept a cloak over her shoulders and fastened it with a pin, then tucked her thick braid inside her cloak, Arawn forced himself to stir and look away. The other women were all doing the same as Ilsa. They all wore contained, adapted gowns which split at the front and back, with leggings beneath. They were all donning heavy riding gauntlets.
Colwyn clicked at his stallion, who walked forward two paces, which brought the horse alongside Arawn. “Every one of them has at least a knife within reach,” Colwyn said, his voice low. “My wife, included,” he said with a soft sight. “Even Elaine has a small bow strapped to her horse.” His tone was one of approval.
“Elaine liked archery as a child,” Arawn said distantly, as his mind marveled over the transformation of the women in the household. It was remarkable. They were still graceful and feminine, yet their accoutrements would ensure they did not slow down the party as carts and litters would have. This had been Ilsa’s plan.
A light horn sounded from the front gate of the town.
“The Lady approaches, my lord,” Colwyn said. “We should start.”
“Yes,” Arawn said, still feeling dazed. “Ilsa, are you ready?”
She picked up her reins and pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. “Ready, my lord.”
“Each woman is to ride with an officer,” Arawn told her. “You will ride with me. Assign the women now.”
Ilsa’s eyes widened. Then she nodded and turned in her saddle and called each woman’s name in turn, then pointed them toward an officer. The women coaxed their horses forward. The horses trotted obediently and lined up beside each officer.
Colwyn raised his voice and shouted the order to move out. Arawn turned Silvanus about and headed for the bridge over the pond. As he had instructed, Ilsa fell in just behind him, for there was not enough room on the footbridge for her to ride abreast. The other horses in the quadrangle clattered behind them. The bulk of the party fell in with them as they moved across the open space to the road down through the town to the main gates.
As they passed through the main gates, the horn sounded again. Arawn paused, just outside the gates and looked to the north.
Nimue rode with a party of only five. Her powers and her reputation were such that no man would dare try to attack her. She could defend herself if they did. It gave her freedom Arawn envied.
They would have set out yesterday to reach a point in the woods last night that would allow them to arrive here at dawn. Nimue rode at the front of her party, her white hair unbound and gleaming in the morning sun.
Like Ilsa, she wore clothing that seemed highly practical, yet was nothing like a man’s garments.
Arawn studied her as she approached, wondering at the similarity in the women. “Have you been talking to my queen?” he demanded of Nimue as she approached.
Nimue smiled. “And good morning to you, my king and lord.” Her gaze moved toward Ilsa, who was on Arawn’s left, as requested. Nimue gave her a small smile. “I see,” she added. “Perhaps we think alike, Arawn. I see everyone is on horseback. Good.”
“We should start at once if we are to reach the Via Strata before noon.” The Via Strata was the Roman road which drove through the center of southern Brittany.
“We will travel via Étel,” Nimue said, her tone steely. She patted the neck of her horse, a restless gray.
Colwyn muttered something. He was too far back for Arawn to hear it. He didn’t need to, though. “Étel!” Arawn said, his voice rising. “There is a perfectly good road to the east. Why would we travel down the coast through unmarked swamps and the gods know what else?”
“Because I know the way,” Nimue said. “Because it will take more than a day off the journey. And because I ask you to trust me and do this. You have catered to my whims thus far. Now I ask this one thing more.”
“It will take us hours just to cross the rivers here,” Arawn muttered. “What other rivers will we meet? How are we to ford them? Now I understand why you insisted upon horses only.” He shook his head. “This is folly, Nimue.”
“You will arrive safely, if you will only trust me,” Nimue said. She didn’t sound apologetic.
Ilsa caught Arawn’s gaze. Because her face was half-hidden behind her hood, she only had to turn it a little so no one but he could see her face. She gave him a small smile. “I would like to see the coast. And it is the unexpected route.”
Arawn held back more objections. The journey had already started on an unexpected note. Changing routes this way would fit with the pattern. “Very well,” he told Nimue. “We will do it your way.”
He prayed his trust in the Lady of the Lake was justified. He was the cursed king, after all. If the gods wished for him to suffer, now would be the time to deliver another reminder of his wretched grace.
For the rest of the day, Arawn kept his gaze more on Ilsa than the road ahead, absorbing her appearance and the competent air with which she handled the war horse. More than once he found himself tracing the curves of the jerkin under her cloak, too, and marveling at the difference
After all, he must guard her.
Chapter Thirteen
The journey to Carnac via Étel took only two days, when it should have taken four. Ilsa found the journey easier than she had expected. The coastal lands were flat and windswept, with only sea grasses and sand underfoot, stretching back from the sea for miles. There were no trees for thieves to hide in and surprise them, which let the men relax.
Nimue picked her way across the land, following signs and markers invisible to Ilsa. Nimue would change directions and head inland, which puzzled Ilsa, until they rounded the end of a deep bay which would have cut off their progress if they had continued south. At other times, Nimue led them into marshes, dotted with picked-over carcasses of animals caught in the treacherous bogs. Each time, Nimue found a hard-packed causeway through the marshes indistinguishable from the rest of the muddy landscape. They would follow her in single file, stretched out for a half-mile behind her, each horse following the tail of the one before.
They reached Étel an hour before sunset. It was a tiny village of three round huts, each with a large family wearing skins and leathers. The village sat on the headland over a mighty river. As Colwyn and his officers inspected the river and muttered to themselves, Nimue announced they would camp here for the night. She seemed to be unconcerned about the impassable river.
Ilsa gathered the women together. They set out the leather sheets and furs they had strapped to the back of their horses, placing them in a tight circle. A fire was set in the middle. Almost as if they had rehearsed it, the officers and soldiers settled their gear in a larger circle enclosing them and struck campfires on the outside perimeter.
Stilicho and his three slaves hung pots over the fires to warm stew they had brought with them in wide-mouthed water skins. As the sun lowered over the sea and turned it red, the meal was declared ready.
Afterward, the outer guards passed wineskins and built the fires high.
Arawn came to where Ilsa had laid her skins and furs. “I would speak with you, alone, madam.” His tone was courteous. “You will be safe enough with me.” He touched the hilt of his great sword, then held his left hand out to her.
Ilsa took his hand and he hoisted her to her feet. She bent and retrieved her cloak from beneath the warm furs and pulled it around her. It was much cooler beyond the radius of the big fir
es.
Arawn walked beyond the rope lines of horses to where they could see the moon shining on the sea. Ilsa looked behind them at the camp. No one watched them.
Farther toward the seaside cliff was the soft sound of a sword being drawn. A quiet challenge sounded.
“It is I. Arawn,” Arawn replied.
The sentry shifted and in the moonlight Ilsa saw the sword slide back into the scabbard.
Arawn smiled at her expression. “There are a dozen sentries all around us, to give an early alert if someone should be drawn to the flames tonight. Did you think I would allow any risk to come near you?”
“It is comforting to know they are there,” she admitted.
“Only, see—he is moving away, to allow us to speak,” Arawn said. He turned to her. “I have spent the day considering your arrangements for this journey. I understand most of your plans, now. The gowns you wear, to allow fast riding. The furs, so you can sleep well and recover. The hair, even the weapons…these are all commendable and your efforts will help hasten this journey. You have my thanks for these. There is one point, though, which I cannot fathom.”
Ilsa strung her hands together. “My lord?”
“The horses. You all mounted the horses as if you were born to it. Not one of you showed any discomfort at having to control such a beast. Not even Gwen, who is so small the stallion would not notice she is there, let alone feel her knees commanding him.”
“That is why I put Gwen upon the smallest and oldest warhorse you found,” Ilsa said, with a smile. “The explanation, my lord, is that we did train. The day after you told me of Nimue’s request, I had Colwyn ask his men to introduce to each lady the horse she would use and teach her how best to command her horse. In between stitching riding clothes, we have been spending all our hours with our horses—talking to them, mounting and dismounting them, feeding and caring for them, so they became accustomed to us and our voices. Yesterday afternoon we spent the entire afternoon riding, until even Eseld was comfortable upon her horse.”
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