“Yes,” Evaine said. “That is what I mean.”
“If you had been presented with the problem, you would have thought of a different way. Maybe a better way. You are clever and inventive, Evaine. Look at the pattern you designed for Elaine’s gown.”
The pattern in question was a border design which Evaine had shown the women how to weave into the cloth itself. The resulting effect of the little squares arranged in staggered rows was intriguing and Elaine had begged Evaine for the yardage. In turn, Elaine had given to Ilsa the green gown that Ilsa now wore.
“Oh, that is just weaving,” Evaine said. “I want to do what you did, here in Guannes. I want to change things.”
“You will,” Ilsa assured her, her heart running quickly. “Now you are Guannes’ queen, you will make changes without realizing it. You will make Bors happy, Evaine and I wish you the best.”
“Thank you, Ilsa.”
They left Evaine in the big bed, which was so new the posts still emitted stringent pine aroma, and returned to the hall.
There were few men left sitting at the head table, although Bors and Arawn had their heads together, talking softly.
“Where is Elaine?” Ilsa asked Arawn. As a maiden, Elaine had remained at the table. Now her place on the bench was empty.
Arawn looked around, frowning. “Perhaps she stepped out?” He wore a frown which told Ilsa his thoughts were a long way from this hall.
“I will find her,” she told him and turned away. Arawn returned to his conversation with Bors. There were similar close conversations happening throughout the hall. It was unusual for the heads of so many kingdoms and forces to be in the same place at once. They were taking advantage of the rare moment to speak to each other and shore up alliances and understandings, develop friendships and bind their lands to each other.
Ilsa could see Ambrosius and Budic talking at one of the smaller, empty tables on the other side of the room.
She looked around the far edges of the room for a small woman with a sharp chin and bright eyes, in a blue gown. Among so many roughly dressed soldiers, Elaine should stand out.
When Ilsa did spot her, she realized why she had not seen her at first. Elaine stood tucked into a corner between the wall and one of the large braziers which warmed the corners of the room.
Uther stood in front of her. Rather, he stood over her. Uther was just as tall as his brother and an imposing figure in his dark blue cloak and copper armbands. The flames beside him made his red hair gleam. He rested a splayed hand against the wall near Elaine’s head.
Elaine shrank back into the even more enclosed space behind her. She was in danger of her hair or veil catching the flames, for they licked between the wide iron sides of the brazier beside her.
Ilsa picked up her trailing hems and hurried to intervene. Only, now she wanted to hurry the excessive yardage in the woolen overdress caught at the feet of the stools and odd projections. It snagged on men’s armor and shoulders and the corners of tables.
Soldiers were in the way, forcing her to step around them, or push until she could squeeze past.
Her veil caught and tore, forcing her to turn back and release the edge from the splinter it had hooked upon.
Ilsa gathered up her hems and shoved at the men in front of her, her patience thinned to the point of frustration.
The man barely moved. He shifted just enough for her to step around him and prop herself upon the table to avoid colliding with him. Then she was through and she hurried to the brazier.
Elaine saw her and relief wrote itself on the young girl’s face.
Ilsa did not know how she might push Uther away from her. He was a soldier, a man and far stronger than her. Elaine’s relief pushed Ilsa forward, anyway. She reached out for Uther’s elbow. Before she could touch him another, far larger, hand gripped Uther’s arm and yanked him around.
At the same time, Ban reached between Uther and the brazier and plucked Elaine out of her dangerous corner. Ban pulled her against him and spun, shielding her from the flames and from Uther.
Ambrosius slammed Uther up against the wall and pressed his forearm against Uther’s chest, high under his chin yet not quite against his neck. “Fool!” Ambrosius raged quietly, so no one would hear except Ilsa, who stood beside them. “Will you never learn to contain your base nature, brother? She is royalty—the daughter of a king and sister to our ally and kin.”
Uther scowled. “It was a moment of distraction, brother,” he ground out. “I am not stupid.”
“No, you’re bored…like a child with no toys,” Ambrosius snapped. “It seems I must entertain you still.” He glanced at Ilsa as if he had known she stood there all along. “Is Elaine unharmed?”
Ilsa glanced to where Ban had placed Elaine on an empty bench and stood over her, pressing a wine cup into her hands. “She is,” Ilsa told Ambrosius.
Ambrosius let go of Uther, although he did not step away from him.
Uther straightened his cloak and pulled his tunic back into place. He seemed unrepentant.
“Bors has pleaded for my aid to deal with Claudas,” Ambrosius told Uther. “I cannot spare the time to deal with fractious men. I will send you, instead.”
“Send?” Uther said, his interest caught.
“Bors seeks only to repel Claudas from his borders. I think more is needed. I think Claudas needs to understand the sensation of being invaded. Take your men and go to the heart of his kingdom and give him reason to reconsider next time he wishes for new adventures.”
“I can do that,” Uther said, eagerness shining in his eyes.
Ambrosius held up his finger. “Discourage him, Uther. Do not kill him. We do not need a second war on our flank just when we are about to engage in our own. Hear me?”
Uther scowled. “Dented, not dead. I have it.”
Ambrosius measured him with his gaze, then he nodded. “You can remain behind here in Campbon and help Bors. I will send your men to you when I return to Carnac.”
Uther’s scowl deepened and Ilsa guessed why. Elaine would return with Ambrosius and Arawn, taking her out of Uther’s reach.
Ambrosius turned away from Uther and gave Ilsa a stiff smile. “Come, kinswoman. Let us share a cup of wine and talk of gentler matters.”
Startled, Ilsa followed him back to the head table. Bors had left, most likely to attend his new wife in the bedchamber. Arawn had gone, too. Merlin, though, got to his feet as Ambrosius approached. “My lord…?”
Ambrosius waved at him to sit down again. He called over a pot boy, who filled three of the cups Ambrosius swept together. Ambrosius pushed one in front of Merlin and another toward Ilsa, then sat and drank from the third. He sighed as he put the cup down. “I apologize for my brother, Ilsa. He is young still and although he is a tempered soldier, he is still raw in other aspects.”
Ilsa gripped her cup. “I believe he spoke truly when he said he was distracting himself. I don’t believe Elaine was in danger.”
Ambrosius scowled. “She did not know that, though. Which is why I apologize.”
“I will pass your regrets on to her.”
“Thank you.”
Merlin’s gaze was steady as he peered into the flame of the lamp sitting in the middle of the table, his grip loose about the cup in front of him. “Elaine will not regret the outcome of this night.” His voice was even and distant.
Something prickled the back of Ilsa’s neck, the invisible fingers sliding up to the top of her head. She shuddered. “Why would she not regret it?”
Ambrosius laid his hand on her arm and squeezed. He shook his head.
Ilsa swallowed.
“Tell me,” Ambrosius murmured to Merlin. “What do you see in the flame?”
Merlin didn’t react. It was as if no one was there in the room with him, even though the table was surrounded by men with voices made loud by wine and good food, the crackle of braziers and the clatter of mugs on tables. His black eyes were on the dancing flame of the lamp.
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��No one will regret this night,” Merlin said, “except Ilsa the Hunter.”
The fingers danced on her skin once more. Ilsa tightened her grip on her cup. Even if Ambrosius had not warned her, she still would not have been able to speak. She wanted to shake the boy, to make him look at her and explain himself.
“Why will she regret the night?” Ambrosius pressed.
“All brides of the Cursed King regret the night,” Merlin breathed. “The death of the first child will forever damn him.”
Ilsa shuddered. The cup rocked and spilled its contents in a flood of wine that in the flame of the lamp looked as red as blood.
WHEN ARAWN CAME TO her that night in the tiny chamber which had been given to them, Ilsa wanted to speak of Merlin’s prediction and vent her horror and fear upon him. There was no table and no mulled wine to ease them into their duties. Arawn did not speak at all. It was a soulless coupling which left her even more fearful.
It was almost a relief to rise before dawn and dress once more for travel.
AMBROSIUS TURNED ASIDE AT Vennes to travel to Carnac with his small company of guards. Ambrosius’ reputation and the efficiency of his army had made the interior of Morbihan safer than most lands, although it still wasn’t wise to travel in small parties.
The remainder of the company used the safe-for-now Via Strata which ran north from Budic’s Vennes and through the Perilous Forest. The road skirted the enchanted heart of the place where the Lady’s power was strongest.
Because the road was in good repair, they made excellent time and Nimue parted from them with her two escorts only a day later.
By the time they reached Lorient, Ilsa and the women were more than ready to return to their chambers and workrooms and not ride another horse for a good, long while. Traveling by horseback had consequences none of them had anticipated, giving them aches and pains which lingered for days afterwards.
Yet the journey was completed in record time and Arawn seemed pleased with their speed, although he said nothing to Ilsa.
The tide was high when they reached the pontoon to cross the Blavet. The river lapped at the very top of the dock and the smell of brine was strong.
“The sea comes up this high?” Ilsa asked, startled.
“Higher, sometimes,” Elaine said, for she had remained close by Ilsa’s side throughout the journey and remained as silent as her brother, her thoughts turned inward. “The river has broken its banks more than once, when the tide is high enough.”
“High tide, low tide. They come at once, and the Lady got us across one river because of them,” Colwyn said thoughtfully.
“When it is this high,” Elaine continued, “it spills into the Scorff and spoils the fresh water there. We must look to the wells for water until the river runs fresh once more.”
Arawn scowled. He said nothing yet Ilsa guessed what he was thinking. The wells were already too low. This would further reduce their water.
On the other side of the swift-moving river, Ilsa saw swallows swooping and diving upon something on the banks beyond the other dock. She watched their movements as the pontoon drifted closer to the dock. They appeared to be attacking something which shone and glittered in the late afternoon sun.
“Is that a soldier’s shield?” Ilsa asked of no one in particular. “Lying discarded there on the bank?”
Elaine lifted her hand to shade her eyes and peer at the other bank. “It is a helmet, I think. How extraordinary! Who would leave a helmet behind?”
Ilsa watched the birds’ movements for a while longer. As they drew closer, she could see better what it was they were doing. They were diving right into the helmet itself, which was lying on one side.
It was unusual for birds to fly into a tight space in that way, unless it was a well-guarded and secure nest.
As the pontoon grounded against the dock and the men secured the ropes, Ilsa watched one tiny swallow land on the lip of the helmet—the protective flap which would lie over a warrior’s ear. It hopped into the interior cave of the helmet and pecked at the walls.
No…it was drinking!
As the horses thundered onto the banks, the swallows flittered away, abandoning the helmet. Ilsa didn’t mount Mercury at once. Instead, she pulled at his reins and walked over to the helmet. Her boots squelched across the ground. She lifted them up, peering at the damp earth.
“The river burst its banks, then,” Elaine said, looking down at Ilsa from her stallion. “Only yesterday, if the ground is still wet with seawater.”
Ilsa bent and picked up the helmet. Water sloshed from it, spilling seaweed. The dry scent of salt and the stench of the weed scratched at the back of her throat. “The birds were drinking from this, yet it is seawater,” she said.
Elaine shrugged. “High tides throw strange things upon the beaches. Maybe a soldier died at sea?” She kicked her stallion into motion.
“Birds can’t drink salt water,” Ilsa called after her.
“Apparently, they can!” Elaine called back.
Ilsa kept the helmet. She mounted her horse, puzzled, and fell in with the company. One more smaller river crossing and they would be home.
When had she begun to think of Lorient as home?
Chapter Sixteen
The mystery of the water in the helmet continued to vex Ilsa for days after they returned.
She had promised Arawn she would not wander from the house without a large, secure company about her. Ilsa instead asked Stilicho to send for a large bucket of seawater.
Ilsa put a cupful of the water in the helmet and laid it in the open for the birds to drink from. Then she took up a post on the corner of the verandah to observe. For days, nothing happened. Ilsa was forced to abandon her post to tend to other duties.
Reluctantly she put aside the traveling clothes she had found so comfortable and easy to wear. Instead, she donned the Roman style overdresses that scratched and tangled around her feet. She remembered how the long hems had tripped her and the folds had snagged and held her back when she had been trying to cross the room to help Elaine, at the wedding feast.
The wide necks were not warm, either, unless she wrapped a mantle about her shoulders, which further limited her movements.
For a woman who sewed and spun, perhaps the limited movements were not as frustrating as Ilsa found them to be. She sat with her four companions and explained what she wanted instead, while spreading the extraordinarily soft golden brown underdress Elaine had given her across the table, to demonstrate.
“This is close fitting. If it did not spread about so much at the feet and was cut so it did not drag along the ground as I walked, then it would not get in the way.”
Rigantona frowned. “We can adjust the undertunic for you, if you wish.”
“I do,” Ilsa told her. “I also want you to make my overdresses the same way. Tight at the sleeves and hips and stopping right at the ground and not a finger width beyond.”
All four women opened their mouths and raised their brows. Ilsa waited them out.
“A lady, a Roman lady, must…must…” Eseld spluttered.
Ilsa raised her brow. “Did Uther not suggest to Ambrosius that he should embrace the Briton in him and discard the Roman? I am merely following the future High King of Britain’s lead. Roman women can afford to wear gowns which slide about and need constant adjusting and must be carried about in front of them so they do not trip. They can wear veils and mantles which bind their arms, so they can do nothing more taxing than push their hair out of their eyes. We are women of Britain. We can travel on horseback and not slow down men. We have proved we can be more than decorative, have we not?”
“You will not wear a veil?” Rigantona said, touching the fine gauze which covered her own hair.
Merryn smiled. “Nor a mantle, I am guessing.”
“Not if I can avoid it. The overdress, if you make it as I wish, will be warm enough on its own. Only in the coldest of winter will I need a cloak, unless I go outside.”
“Extra
ordinary,” Eseld murmured, sounding distressed. “Traveling as we did is one thing. It was necessary. This, though…”
Ilsa raised her brow.
“You are a queen!” Eseld finished, with a defiant note in her voice.
“One who wishes to serve her people. I cannot work when I cannot walk without falling over my own garments.” Ilsa met Eseld’s faded brown eyes. “Your queen asks you to do this.”
Eseld blinked.
“Serves you right, Eseld,” Merryn said cheerfully. She looked at Rigantona. “That heavy wool, the one which doesn’t drape well…?”
“The mucky green one?” Rigantona asked. “There’s yards and yards of it. No one will touch it.”
“If we cut it the way this undershift is cut, turned diagonally to the edges, it will stretch as this does, will it not?” Merryn said, pulling at the linen undershift to demonstrate. “Then the sleeves can be cut tightly and still fit over her hands when she pulls it on.”
Rigantona got to her feet. “I’ll fetch it.”
The gown was made over the next two days, with tests and fittings and adjustments, until it matched what Ilsa wanted. She spun experimentally and saw the hem flare at the movement. When she grew still, the hem dropped about her toes. The dress hugged her wrists, so no cold air crept beneath. She touched the high neck, which stopped at the base of her throat. The golden undershift beneath protected her skin from the wool.
The green was not as mucky as Rigantona had made it sound. It was a muted color, one which was often found in nature at this time of year, which pleased Ilsa.
“In summer, your gowns could have lower necks and shorter sleeves,” Merryn suggested.
“And slits in the skirt like our riding clothes, to let the air in,” Eseld added. She had rid herself of her doubts about propriety as the work had continued. Now she was as full of ideas as Rigantona was about future adaptations of the design.
That night in the triclinium, Elaine circled Ilsa three times, taking in the details of her gown and tugging at it here and there, inspecting it. “Oh, I do like it!” she exclaimed. “Only, it isn’t…well, elegant.”
Dragon Kin Page 17