“You seek the big spring?” Ilsa said, surprised.
Both men looked at her sharply.
“You know of it?” the dark one asked. He hesitated. “The magic one,” he added.
Ilsa swallowed her laugh. She didn’t know who these men were. Their clothes, their arms and their jewelry said they were high born. She couldn’t afford to insult them by laughing at their ignorance. High-borns resented feeling foolish, more than the average man might. “The only magic about the spring is that it never fails, not even this year. It is difficult to find, though. You are lost, if that is where you truly head.”
He leaned toward her, his interest caught. “There are stones around it, then?” he demanded.
She shrugged. “Around it, under it. It is a slow spring. You would quench your thirst in a visit but to fill a barrel would take days.”
“It is in the enchanted part of the forest, then?” the red-headed man asked.
“The Lady’s lands? No.”
The two men exchanged glances. The dark-haired one cleared his throat. “I would be in your debt if you would show us the way to the spring.”
She pressed her lips together, staying silent. The stag was caught or had escaped. Either way, it was far beyond her reach now. Using the deer as an excuse to refuse the lord’s request would not work.
She did not want to linger in the company of these people. The longer she was among them, the greater the risk her true nature would be revealed.
“You can have the hind of the deer,” the red-headed man said. “As payment.”
“Perhaps your men did not catch the stag, either,” she replied.
A horn blew, a high triumphant note. Voices lifted in excitement.
The man raised his brows. The deer had been brought down.
“I want all the deer,” Ilsa said.
The dark-haired man snorted. “Half,” he replied.
She considered. “Half…and the purse which hangs from your belt.”
The red-headed man sat back with an expression that was either disgust or amusement. “An outrageous sum for a moment’s work. We can find the spring ourselves. Clearly, there is one.”
Ilsa threaded her bow back over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “You don’t know where you are. You don’t know the Lady’s land. You don’t know if the spring lies north, south, east or west of her land. I will wish you good luck in your search for it.”
The red-headed man scowled. “Listen, boy—”
“Very well,” the other said, cutting him off. “Half the deer and my purse.”
Ilsa held out her mud-caked hand and beckoned with her fingers.
“Arawn, no…” the red-head breathed, as the dark-headed man plucked the purse from his belt.
Ilsa drew in a sharp breath. Arawn? It could not possibly be…this was the king of Brocéliande? The cursed king who had killed two dozen wives?
He tossed the purse at her and it hit her chest. She clutched the leather against her shoulder, feeling the weight of a handful of coins. It was impossible to tear her gaze away from him.
He looked at the other lord. “I said I would do anything. I did not lie.” He turned his head and his gaze found Ilsa where she stood in the mud. “You. Climb up behind my man, there, and tell him where we should go.”
One of the other two horses nudged closer to her. The man on it was a helmeted soldier, unshaved, dour and older than either of the lords. He held out a gauntleted hand. “Wrap your cloak around you first. I don’t want that mud on my back.”
Ilsa tugged at the folds of cloak until it hung straight from her shoulders. She pulled the edges together under the string of her bow and adjusted the arrow bag under it. She was pleased to have an excuse for hiding her body beneath the thick wool.
Then she reached for the man’s arm and hauled herself up onto the stallion behind him and settled herself.
The red-headed man watched her with narrowed eyes.
“Holy gods above. He stinks,” the guard complained, waving his glove in front of his nose.
“Where, boy?” the king demanded.
She pointed, wary about using her voice. The other lord was watching her too closely.
The remaining guard, the fourth man in the clearing, let out a sharp, short whistle that made her wince. A distant call sounded in response, a moment of silence, then the clod of horses approaching. The men who had caught the deer were returning.
Their return would reduce even further her chances of escaping this mess.
Her heart sinking, Ilsa considered her choices. She could slide off the horse, risk an ankle with the drop to the ground and also risk an arrow in the back as she escaped.
They might let her go once she was out of sight and consider the loss of the purse not worth the trouble of pursuing her. Or she might leave the purse and hope it would appease them and leave her free to return home…only, she would be empty handed and it was late. From here, it would take her the rest of the daylight to reach the woods around the cot. It would be too late to check the snares and hope for fresh catch to take home, instead.
She needed that stag!
Only, to gain the meat, she must linger with these men and risk being exposed as a woman.
As the horses moved off in the direction she had pointed, Ilsa put her chin down and pulled her cap lower over her face. What she would not give for a hood to pull deep over her head, right now! Where was the red-headed lord? Was he still watching her? She didn’t dare look around to check.
Keeping her voice as low as she could, Ilsa murmured her directions to the soldier in front of her. She directed the party around the edges of the Lady’s domain, to the spring that never failed. The spring was not well known, for it was on the border of the Lady’s lands, where few would dare go.
The Lady of the Lake held dominion over the heart of the forest. Her influence stretched from the lake where her stronghold was built, for many miles in all directions. It was said that any man who dared step inside her borders would not survive to tell the tale. Ghosts lingered among the trees, watching everyone who passed and sending word back to the Lady.
The Lady of the Lake could turn a person into a pillar of stone just by looking at them, they said.
Ilsa suspected that much of what ‘they’ said was sheer nonsense, designed to scare little children when they gathered around the fire-pit. However, she would not step across the invisible borders of the Lady’s land and risk finding out there was truth in the tales.
She tapped the rider’s shoulder and pointed. “Swing to the south more,” she told him. “There is a deer trod, just ahead. That will lead you straight to the spring.”
A hand gripped her wrist. “Halt,” came the low, imperative command.
The soldier halted obediently.
The red-headed lord brought his black stallion up beside the guard’s, easing between the trees and the horse. He kept hold of her wrist and brought her arm out at its full length and peered down at her hand.
Ilsa’s heart leapt. She curled her fingers.
“Open your hand,” he said curtly.
“Uther, if we stop this often we won’t reach Lorient before dark,” the king said, behind them.
Uther.
Ilsa stared at the lord grinding her wrist in his grip. Prince Uther. Brother to Ambrosius. General of his army and his heir.
She had heard all the tales about Uther. His womanizing was legendary. His appetites, all of them, were prodigious. He could clear a table, drain a barrel, then work his way through an entire household of women, all before the sun rose.
This was Prince Uther?
Uther shook her wrist. “Let me see, or I will make you show me.”
Ilsa’s heart hurt too much. She had no other defense than this weak disguise. If Uther, of all men, saw what she really was… She couldn’t uncurl her fingers, not even to obey the command of a prince.
His blue eyes lifted to her face. He made an impatient sound, then reached for her.
“Uther, for the love of the gods…!” Arawn said. His horse pressed up on the other side of the guard’s.
Uther smiled. His smile grew. He tugged on Ilsa’s arm, turning her so she was facing Arawn. Her cap was snatched away. With a satisfied sound, Uther yanked her bound hair from inside her tunic and tossed it over her shoulder so the braid laid against her chest. “It seems, Arawn, we have had a most successful day’s hunt, after all.”
Arawn stared at her, his gaze flickering over her, from her boots to the top of her head. “A woman?” he breathed. “How did you know, Uther? The mud and the clothes make it impossible to tell.”
The guard tried to turn in his saddle to look at her, too.
“A boy so young would not have her confidence, nor the hunting skills and knowledge of the forest,” Uther said. “I watched her climb onto the horse. No lad is so graceful. Look at her hands. These are a woman’s fingers.” He tossed her hand back into her lap.
Ilsa pulled her cloak about her once more. She put her hand beneath it and loosed her knife, curled her fingers around the hilt and waited. There was only one way out of this. She would have to fight.
Arawn nudged his horse up close with a click of his tongue and a nudge of his knee, his gaze on her face. “How old are you?” he demanded.
“I’m twelve,” she lied. Most men would find such an age off-putting.
“Tall for twelve,” the king said doubtfully.
“She is not twelve,” Uther said, his tone flat with certainty. “Not from what I felt beneath her cloak. Unmarried, too, or she would have spoken of brats and a husband looking to her. She mentioned a mother and father and that is all.”
Arawn’s glance moved toward Uther, on the other side of the horse Ilsa sat upon. “I cannot take the first woman to cross my path—”
“That was the agreement,” Uther said. “You said you would do anything, yes?”
Ilsa’s heart gave another flutter at the mention of taking. With a heave against the back of the horse, she threw herself off the rear of it and slid to the ground. If she moved quickly—She took a single pace before Uther snatched at the back of her cloak, his big hand gripping her tunic and undershirt, too. She could not wriggle out of all her clothes to get away.
“No, you don’t,” he said, with a grunt of effort. He threw his leg over the horse and slithered to the ground beside her, his grip not shifting. His other hand curled around her arm, minimizing her struggles.
She snatched at her knife, instead.
With a curse, Uther let go of her cloak, spun her around and grabbed her knife arm, halting her. He twisted her wrist until the knife dropped from her numb fingers.
Then he shook her. “Contain yourself. You are not being threatened.”
“If I was not, then I would be free to leave.” She pulled against his grip, fear giving her extra strength. It was not enough to loosen his hold.
The king dismounted with a light drop and threw his reins to the guard. He came around his horse and stood in front of her. He was a tall man, although Uther was taller. Arawn held up his hands, showing he carried no weapon. “Prince Uther speaks truly. You are not in danger. Will you remain still for a moment and let me explain?”
“You can keep your purse. The stag, too,” she told him. “Just let me go.”
The king tilted his head, his eyes narrowing, as if he was trying to peer through the mud on her face, which had dried now to a flaking, itching layer. “You do not speak like a poor woman. Who are you?”
“That, King, is none of your affair.”
Arawn shook his head and said the most extraordinary thing she had heard in her life. “It is my concern, if I am to marry you.”
Chapter Three
You cannot marry me,” Ilsa gasped.
“Why not?” Arawn lifted his brow enquiringly.
“Because…because I am not your subject,” she said, grasping.
“You are in my forest,” he pointed out.
“I am from Brandérion. Brandérion belongs to King Budic. I answer to him, not you.”
“Ah.” He looked at Uther. “Do you know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Uther admitted. “It is at the far north of Budic’s borders. That way.” He pointed in the correct direction.
Arawn crossed his arms, considering her once more. “You are Budic’s subject, yet you hunt on my lands?”
“Deer don’t know about borders.” She shrugged.
Arawn shook his head. “Budic will be amenable to the match. Again, I ask. Who are you? Tell me your name and your sire’s.”
Ilsa shuddered. “I will not marry you. You kill your wives.”
Uther uttered a short, low laugh.
Arawn nodded. “That is why I must find another. You know about the curse that dogs my land?”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to die.” She glanced at Uther. He had let her arm loose, although he stood too close for her to try bolting. His reactions were quick and he was strong.
“If you are the one to break the curse, you will not die,” Arawn replied. “This drought that inflicts all the kingdoms of Brittany—Budic’s and mine, Guannes and Morlaix…you would see the drought broken, would you not?”
“It would end if I married you?” she said, amazed.
“If you bear my child, then yes,” he said. “Tell me who your father is and I will speak to him.”
She shook her head, as her middle cramped. This was all happening too quickly for her to absorb. The talk of marriage and children was moving far beyond the point she was still snagged upon. “You are not listening. I will not marry you.”
“Not even to save your kingdom?” Arawn asked. “For that is why I would contemplate such a madness…and it is madness, I admit. The curse will not break until my child is born. I must take a wife to do that, and quickly. You are here before me. I will marry you.”
The trembling spread. “My father would not allow it,” she said, a desperate bid to outmaneuver the man’s reasonableness.
“What man would not want his daughter married to a king?” Uther said. “Although, if you insist upon refusing a king, I will escort you back to your home.”
She shuddered. She needed no imagination to be certain how that journey would end.
Arawn shook his head. “No, Uther. I will not force the woman into this. She must agree willingly.”
“I do not agree,” she said. She gritted her teeth together. “Not at all.”
Arawn considered her, his hand stroking his rough chin. “Will you at least tell me your name?”
She swallowed. “Will you let me go, if I do?”
“Will you agree to listen first? Properly listen, I mean—not simply stand and nod?”
“If I really listen, will you let me go, afterwards? Free—with no escort,” she added quickly, glancing at Uther. Uther smiled.
“If you will promise to listen,” Arawn said, “I will let you go afterwards, free to return alone to your home.”
Ilsa gathered the cloak back around her again. She felt cold. “My name is Ilsa.”
“Ilsa.” Arawn frowned. “An odd name. A pretty one. Uther, would you and the men withdraw? I would speak to Ilsa alone.”
“Only if she gives me her weapons, first,” Uther growled.
Arawn raised his brow at her.
Ilsa hesitated. To allow herself to be stripped of every defense was intolerable. Yet, if she agreed, she would be one step closer to safety, perhaps even with the stag and the purse.
She slid the bow off her shoulder, then the strap of the arrow pouch and gave them to Uther. He held out his other hand. “Knife.”
She pulled the knife out and held the hilt out to him.
“Now…” Arawn began.
“The
other knife, too,” Uther said heavily.
Ilsa glared at him. He stared back.
She sighed and bent and pulled the small knife from her boot and slapped it onto his hand.
“Do you have more knives?” Arawn asked, sounding both amused and startled.
“I don’t mind searching her to find out,” Uther said.
She shuddered. “Nothing more,” she said quickly.
Uther’s smile told her he had threatened to search her to force her to speak the truth.
Arawn stepped aside and waved toward the trees on the other side of the faint trail they were standing upon. “There is a fallen tree there we can sit upon to speak. After you.”
Ilsa forced herself to turn and put her back to Uther. She moved through the trees toward the big trunk the king had pointed to. As she went, she scrubbed at her face with the corner of her cloak. There was no need for the disguising mud. It had not served her well, anyway.
Her skin was dry and dusty when she was done. Her hair had dried into solid curlicues around her face, too. She rubbed at them, breaking away the crusty mud. It was in her brows, too.
The log was as high as her waist. Ilsa contemplated how she was to sit upon it, or perhaps she could lean against it.
Arawn held out his hand. “Let me help you.”
She stepped around his hand, thrust the toe of her boot into a crevasse in the log, and stepped up onto the broad log. She walked along it to where the king stood, then sat and drew her knees up against her chest and looked at him.
Arawn’s eyes narrowed as his gaze settled on her face. “You are older than I guessed,” he said. “How is it you have not married yet?”
“My father is a choosy man.” She shrugged.
“How has your father fared, these three years of no rain?”
Ilsa dropped her gaze, her heart stirring. “As well as anyone, I suppose.” Her voice quivered, though, giving her away.
“Tell me why you are hunting and not he?”
She swallowed. “He only has one eye and it is weak. Although he was once a master bowman.”
“I see. He can no longer shoot a bow. Yet he could gather and snare and forage. Does he do those things?”
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 17