Ilsa traced the ties on her boots with the tip of her finger. “He’s…he is sick,” she admitted.
“A strange sickness,” Arawn said. “His legs cramp…or he has headaches which blind him and leave him helpless. He cannot move from his bed, most days.”
She looked at him, her heart thudding. “Yes,” she whispered. “All of that. How did you know?”
“Because the same sickness troubles people everywhere I go,” Arawn said. “I have seen people collapse in the heat of summer, yet they do not sweat. Their faces turn gray and their skin chalky.”
Ilsa thought of her mother’s face, as she had seen it this morning. “Yes…” she breathed.
Arawn sighed. “It has been a very long three years of watching people suffer. The lack of water causes this sickness, Ilsa. Your parents have given you more water than they have taken themselves.” He was not asking. “I have seen that happen, too. There is no sweating because it is not a plague or any normal illness. Yet before the drought, there was plague in my kingdom. Budic’s was spared, yet you live so close to Brocéliande…were your people touched by plague, Ilsa?”
“People in the village were sick. For the longest time, my father wouldn’t let me go into the village.”
“He was protecting you. Before the plague, my people lost two years’ worth of harvest. We bought grain from Budic and from Guannes and Morlaix, as much as they could spare, yet the years were still lean. They drained the strength my people might have had to combat the plague. You were likely too young to remember talk of the harvest loss. Your kingdom did not suffer as mine did.”
She crossed her arms over her knees as a shiver slid up her spine. “I am no one, your highness. How could marrying me halt such troubles?”
“The Lady of the Lake prophesied that the woman who bore my first child would save my kingdom.” Arawn spread his hands. “You are a woman, who can bear children. Why could it not be you of which the prophecy speaks?”
“If you are wrong, you will kill me.”
“Why would I kill you? You would be the hope of my kingdom.”
“You have killed them all. Dozens of them.”
“You believe my wives died by my hand…” He reached out and rested his hand on the trunk, as if he was weak. “You think I am a monster.”
“Are you saying you are not?”
He hung his head for a moment. “How the story fractures as it passes from mouth to mouth…” he breathed. He straightened. “I have had four wives, Ilsa. Each of them came to their ends through the worst of ill-fortune, barely before I got to know them. I did not harm a single one of them myself. My curse was their doom, though. Know that, before you decide. You would risk the same fate. I will not deny it.”
Ilsa shuddered. “Why would I agree?”
He hesitated. “I could offer you an inducement you would find difficult to refuse. I could promise your parents would never again be in need of anything. They would be cared for to the end of their days. That will happen anyway, Ilsa. Your father will not suffer for your absence. I will see to it. Although I would rather you agree to this because your heart moves you to do so, not because of any inducement I might offer.”
She waited, sensing he had more to say.
“If you take the risk,” he continued, “and agree to help me in this and you are the one of whom the Lady of the Lake spoke, you will save my people from the misfortunes that have struck us for more than ten years.” His gaze met hers. “Your own people, too, Ilsa. For this drought affects us all and you have the power to end it.”
“If I marry you.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and rested her head against her knees. She was shuddering, her heart hurting with each beat.
All her life, she had lived in the far corner of the world, unnoticed by everyone. She was a wood cutter’s daughter, with no special talents. She had listened to all the tales about kings and queens and lords and ladies whose grand deeds had changed hundreds of lives for the better. She had always thought such tales to be marvelous stories, to be enjoyed once the day’s lot was done.
Ilsa admired the lords and ladies in those stories for their power to make great changes but had always known she could never be one of them. Now, Arawn was giving her the chance to make such a great change. He offered that power.
If she was the one spoken of in the prophecy. If she wasn’t, she would die.
Only, the heroes of the stories took risks, too. Huge risks. Macsen Wledig lost his life before his work was done, yet he had still changed Britain for the better.
Ilsa thought of her mother’s gray face. Her father on the low bed in the corner of the cot and the soft groans he smothered each time he was forced to move.
Ilsa could ease their pain as she had wished she might. It would not be in the way she had imagined, yet it would have the same affect. She would be able to help everyone in her village, too. And many more…
She lifted her head to look at the king, who waited patiently for her to come to her own decision.
“I will marry you,” she said.
Chapter Four
The troop of twenty armed king’s men, hunters and grooms escorted the two lords and Ilsa through Brandérion itself. Every villager emerged from their huts and houses to watch the procession pass by, their eyes wide and their mouths open. Such a visitation had not arrived in Brandérion for generations, for they were the poorest of northern villages, ignored by the rest of the kingdom.
Ilsa sat on Arawn’s horse, gingerly clinging to his belt as he had instructed when they had returned from the log to where the men waited.
Arawn had announced that Ilsa had agreed to the bargain. Uther’s expression was one of amazement. “You merely talked to the girl. I thought nothing would move her but force.”
Arawn patted the prince’s arm. “There are more ways to coax a reluctant woman beyond holding her down and having your way.”
Uther scowled. “I know dozens of them. Plain talk has never worked.”
“For you, perhaps not.” Arawn mounted his horse, furled his cloak, then held his arm out to Ilsa.
“I cannot sit behind you,” she protested, bringing her fingers to the dried mess of mud upon her tunic.
“The stench departed when the mud dried. A little dirt will not offend me,” Arawn told her. “Or would you rather ride with Uther?”
She reached for his arm and hoisted herself up behind him.
“Hold on,” Arawn told her. “I would not have you falling backward into another puddle.”
Conscious that the foul aroma of the mud had not altogether left, she slid her fingertips into the back of his belt. She gripped convulsively as the horse leapt forward and she jerked back.
She directed them to the village, while the armed guards thundered behind them. Now they walked through the village, while everyone stared at her.
“Over the bridge,” she told Arawn. “A mile beyond the village is a clearing.”
He wheeled his horse to take the road that led over the bridge and everyone followed. The horses’ hooves clattered on the stony surface of the bridge. From this height, she could see straight down into the river. There was only a narrow stream of water in the gray, sandy channel. The water was dank, filled with bitter foulness that made it impossible to drink. The village had stopped using the river water two years ago. Now, they relied on their wells and their knowledge of lakes and springs in the area, for which they must compete with every other nearby village.
The horses kicked up a fine dust that lingered in the still air and tickled the back of her throat. They clattered down the road at a brisk canter, for there were not as many people walking the road on this side of the river. The beeches and old oaks leaned over the road, forming a tunnel of shade that during the heat of summer was lovely. Now, though, it was a chilled passage that made Ilsa shiver.
Ilsa had lived all her life in the big cottage in the clearing by the side of the road, a mile from the village. She had
walked this road many times. Rounding the last curve before the clearing appeared, seeing the thatched roof of the cottage hove into view, had always comforted her.
Now, though, the sight of the house made her uneasy and not only because she sat behind a king and rode beside the brother of the true High King. Throughout the summer, returning home had lost its charm.
The horses trotted around the bend and the white walls of the cottage came into view. She saw it as a stranger might and as these men would see it.
The whitewash on the daub was no longer clean. Dusty summers and dry winters had coated the walls with fine gray dirt. The clearing, which had once bloomed with wild orchids and soft clover underfoot was now a parched, bone-white patch of dirt. The woodpile lay scattered from her searching for smaller logs to split. The ax leaned against the chopping block where Ilsa had left it. Rain barrels were tipped on their sides, showing empty interiors.
Thatch on the roof was dry and faded to a silver, blank sheen, except where the smoke issuing from the smoke hole had stained it brown.
The crickets that had once lived in the grass around the house were silent. The frogs which liked to squat in the mud around the base of the rain barrels were gone, just as the mud had gone.
The only sound in the clearing was the trample of hooves. As they came to a halt in front of the house, a hawk screeched as it dived upon prey among the trees on the edge of the forest that circled about the house. The loud, raucous note made Ilsa jump.
“Bigger than I expected,” Uther murmured as he jumped to the ground with careless ease and tossed the reins to the man beside him.
Arawn held out his arm for Ilsa to use to climb to the ground.
She pushed herself backward, dropping to the earth on the wrong side of the horse. She wrapped the cloak about her once more to smother the cloud of fine dust the mud gave off. The dust choked her throat.
Her heart skidding along like a frightened colt, Ilsa moved out from the horses and pushed the door. Unlike most of the cottages in the village which still covered their doorways with hide, this was a real door, made of local oak, with metal hinges that had come all the way from Britain.
The hinges screeched as the door swung open. They had been making that sound for the last two years. Even metal had grown warped from the heat of the summers. Ilsa’s mother had rubbed pork fat into them, to no avail. Ilsa had stopped hearing the sound until this moment.
The cottage was warm from the heat of the fire in the pit in the center of the room. The aroma of the meat curing in the roof above the fire was the strongest scent. Her mother had a way with herbs that made the scent of curing meat mouth-watering, only there had been no herbs to collect for months. Instead, the smell was gamy.
Both Uther and Arawn followed her into the cottage even though she had not opened the door for them to enter. They stood a pace inside the door, looking around.
Ilsa pulled the bow from her shoulder and the bag of arrows and hung both on the dowel rammed into the strut closest to the door. She hesitated, then untied the cloak and took it off. With a nervous motion, she hung it on the same hook, then brushed down her tunic, tugging it back over her hips and straightening the belt hanging from them.
Her arrival and the sound of people moving into the house stirred no one. It did not surprise her. Arawn, though, raised a brow. “Your family…?”
She nodded toward the sleeping platform. “Stay here,” she told him. “I will speak to them, first.” She moved around the two men and over to the sloping ladder up to the platform and climbed it swiftly, uncomfortably aware that both men watched her.
The pallet was big, taking up most of the platform, with room at the foot and one side for her parents to move around it. It was a thick mattress of straw, covered with good blankets. There were pillows stuffed with wool findings and covered in linen her mother had spun and woven herself from flax grown behind the house. The oil lamp sitting on the chest in the corner held oil scented with wild lavender.
Up here under the roof, the air was even warmer. In winter, the sleeping platform was cozy.
Her mother, Non, sat on one of the cushions, her back against the chest and her eyes closed. Ilsa suspected she was sleeping. She touched her mother’s thin shoulder to rouse her, then turned and crouched beside her father.
Pryce’s one good eye was open. It was bloodshot and filled with pain. “Who is here?” he whispered and winced at the effort. The other eye, the one which had been lost when an arrow pierced it, had the lid drawn down and stitched in place by the surgeon who had saved her father’s life. The stitches had long gone. The scars they left were white and pale against his heated skin.
“You must come down and speak to them, Father,” she told him. “It is important.”
He moved as if he would rise from the bed, then fell back and scrunched his eye closed. “I cannot. Bring them here. Someone from the village?” His voice was weak, but even.
“No, not from the village.” She hesitated. “It is a king, father.”
His eye opened again, settling on her face. “A king? Here?”
She nodded.
“Budic?” he breathed, for Budic was his lord and lord of this village.
“Arawn,” she replied. “Prince Uther is with him.”
“Uther…” He struggled to rise once more and fell back again with a choked sound.
Ilsa rested her hand on her father’s shoulder. “Stay there,” she murmured and got to her feet. She moved to the edge of the sleeping platform and looked down at the two grand lords standing in her poor house. “My father cannot rise. You must come up here.”
Uther raised his brows, amused.
Arawn did not hesitate. He climbed quickly. With a sigh, Uther followed him.
Arawn straightened as he stepped off the ladder. His head connected with the thatch ties and he bent again. He moved over to where Ilsa stood. As the roof was higher there, he could stand. He turned to look at the pallet where her father laid. His gaze took in her mother’s complexion and her slitted eyes. She was still a handsome woman, despite her gray hair and the fine wrinkles about her eyes. Her eyes were a clear blue when they were not clouded with pain, and her jaw was still fine and strong and her shoulders square.
She watched Arawn with a confused expression. It had been this way for several days, now. Her mother’s mind wandered.
Arawn crouched down beside Ilsa’s father. “Good day to you, sir.” His voice was quiet.
Her father swallowed. His mouth twitched. “I am no lord,” he breathed. “Forgive me for not standing. I cannot.”
“Forgive me for intruding upon your home at such a time,” Arawn said. “These times we find ourselves in, though, are why I am here. You would see them gone, yes?”
Her father nodded. “All men of good conscience would.”
Arawn nodded. “Then I ask you to allow your daughter to marry me, so this curse that blights our lands can be broken.”
Pryce drew in a sharp breath, then coughed. The coughing wracked his weakened body. He winced and grasped at his head as the movement jarred it, still coughing.
Uther hissed and drew away from the pallet to stand at the top of the ladder, his arms crossed. Impatience burned in every stiff line of his body.
Ilsa dropped her knees to the pallet and pushed her hands beneath her father’s shoulders, to help him sit. Her lifting made him hiss in greater pain. The coughing would not abate until he was sitting, though. She must move him.
Arawn saw what she was doing and assisted. They propped her father against the wall. His head hung, his chest heaved and his breath rattled in his throat.
When Pryce recovered enough, he lifted his head. His eye narrowed, gleaming suspiciously. “Why would a king want to marry my Ilsa?”
“A cursed and desperate one,” Arawn said, his tone flat. “One who will do anything to help his people. The breaking of the curse laid upon me and my lands will be the savior of your own, too.”
“Marrying Ilsa wil
l break the curse?”
“It might.” Arawn did not hesitate to speak the qualification. “Or it might not,” he added. “Either way, you will never want for anything ever again. You and your wife will live comfortably and well. Even if you wish to stay here, your needs will be more than met.”
Pryce turned his head, wincing, to look at his wife. Non’s eyes were closed once more and her lips moved, as if she spoke softly to herself.
Pryce closed his eye. “Your intentions are honorable, king?” he whispered. “This is not some cruel jest?”
“No,” Arawn said flatly. “This is no jest. I will wed her properly and in sight of all men and she will be treated as queenly as any great lady would. I promise you that.”
“Then you do not do this for a moment of pleasure. You will not discard her when you have had your fill?”
“Father…” Ilsa breathed. “He is a king. Such sport is beneath him. You dishonor him by even considering the possibility.”
“He keeps the company of a man who, it’s said, is a champion of such sport.” Her father’s voice was dry—from more than lack of water.
Uther rolled his eyes and turned his back.
Arawn smiled. His eyes danced with amusement and the mirth changed his appearance. He was no longer the dark, brooding man she had first seen over the top of his stallion’s head. He was a happy man…a younger man than she had first taken him for.
It was a startling perspective. Ilsa stared at his face, tracing the hints of youth that cares and worries had all but erased.
“Your daughter is generous and you are wise, sir,” Arawn told her father. “There are kings who would reach for what they want and use any means to take it, including insincere marriage vows. I am not that kind of man. I would not take this step at all except that the needs of my people drive me to it. You are right to question my motives. I assure you, your daughter will be honorably treated if you agree to this.”
Pryce studied the king, taking in his dark features, the pale cheeks above a stubbled jaw, the fine wool mantle, the embroidered linen tunic over thick wool trews and soft deer hide boots. The gold hilt of his sword and the silver knife at his belt.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 18