The white walls above the verandah roof showed three lines of small windows, marking the floors. Then another roofline, broken by angled planes jutting over square projections that must house larger rooms with higher ceilings.
Four floors! How many people lived in the king’s house?
A great many people moved about the open space between the three wings. Many of them wore simple tunics and sandals. They would be slaves, most likely. Ilsa had never met a slave before. No one in her village could afford to buy a slave, let alone house and feed them.
Other people moved about the large square between the three-sided house, most of them men and all of them armed.
Between the house and the top of the road was a barren area that in better years was likely grass-filled. And on either side of the road, taking up at least half the open area, was a…
Ilsa lacked the words to describe it. She would call it a pond made by men. Likely, it had another name. The pond was square, with walls low enough for a man to sit upon. Four men sat on the wall right now or stood beside it. Water filled only the lower portion of the pond. Like the river at home, the water was dark green and noxious.
Someone had taken the trouble to build a flat bridge for the road to run straight across the middle of the pond, instead of forcing travelers around it. They clattered over the bridge into the open, gravel-covered square between the three wings of the house. A cry went up. “The king! The king!”
Servants and slaves came running with torches blazing as Arawn’s men dismounted. Arawn held out his arm to her and Ilsa slid down to the ground, turning her head to take in everything.
The servants took the horses, including Arawn’s.
A man in an elegant full-length tunic and dark colored cloak with gold edging came up to Arawn and murmured. He had tanned skin and black eyes.
Arawn nodded, frowning, as he listened to the man. Around them, the soldiers stretched and muttered, paying Ilsa no attention at all.
Directly ahead, in the center of the middle wing of the house, the verandah jutted forward, making it even deeper. No wall crossed the front of the verandah in the wider section. Three columns bracketed each corner, holding up the roof that also projected out over the deepened verandah. The open section was at least twenty of Ilsa’s steps in width, if not more. The house had no front wall across the width. Instead, the room was open to the elements. A row of pillars marked where the wall would have been. In the middle of the pillars, two were missing, making an opening.
Beyond the pillars, the room was filled with deep shadow, although Ilsa glimpsed the gleam of white and gold and the darker outlines of shapes. Chairs, perhaps. Just the scale and grandness of the room made Ilsa wonder if it was where the king met great lords and guests and diplomats.
Arawn gestured toward Ilsa and said to the elegant man. “This is Ilsa. Take her to the women’s quarters. I will explain about her later. For now there are things I must take care of.” He nodded at Ilsa and strode to one of the side wings of the house, and stepped onto the verandah through the opening on that side.
Ilsa’s heart sank. In this vast building full of strangers, Arawn was the only person she knew even slightly.
“I am Stilicho,” the elegant man said. “Come with me.” He moved across the gravel, his sandals crunching, heading in the opposite direction to that taken by Arawn.
Ilsa readjusted her bow and followed him. He was much taller than her and she had to hurry to keep up with him. “Are you a lord, Stilicho?” she asked.
“I am the king’s private secretary,” Stilicho said. “And I am a slave,” he added.
Ilsa’s eyes widened. She reassessed the man. She glanced at the good wool of his tunic. His sandals were whole and clean. He even smelled clean. “A slave can be a secretary?” she asked. “You can read?”
“One cannot be a secretary if one does not read and write.” He seemed amused.
“How can you read if you’re a slave?”
“I could read before I became a slave,” he said, with quiet dignity. He stepped onto the verandah, through the opening in the waist-high wall and moved down it toward the end of the wing. “You do not read?”
“Of course not.”
“You are…a hunter?” he guessed, his gaze taking in her bow.
“Sometimes. When I must be.”
At the far end of the verandah, two guards stood each on one side of a big door with a round handle in the middle. More torches burned in sconces on the walls beside them, lighting the verandah. Beyond the verandah, night had dropped, leaving a streak of red across the western sky.
Stilicho turned the handle on the door and thrust the door open. Then he stepped aside and indicated she should enter.
Ilsa swallowed, staring at the curtain just inside the door. The curtain hid everything. “I should go in?” she murmured.
“I certainly cannot,” Stilicho said, his tone dry. “I am a slave, not a eunuch.”
Ilsa didn’t know what a eunuch was. From his tone, she guessed it was something even worse than being a slave.
Her heart squeezing and jumping, Ilsa took an even firmer grip on her bow and stepped inside. The door thudded shut behind her, leaving her to pull the curtain aside and move in.
Chapter Six
The fabric of the curtain was rich, with gold thread running through it and purple and blue. Ilsa had never seen a fabric with multiple colors woven into the material and not merely embroidered on it. She had never seen such rich colors, either. A woman of remarkable skill had woven it, in Ilsa’s estimation.
Soft voices sounded beyond the curtain. The air in the room was warm.
Ilsa could not stand here forever, even if she wanted to. Besides, the curtain did not completely cut off the view of the room. It hung four paces away from the door so that when the door was open, no one could see inside the room. Once the door closed, the view to either side of the curtain was unblocked.
The walls of the room were not drab daub. They had been painted. The lower half of the wall was a deep red and the upper half was a creamy yellow, with golden lines drawn on it. The lines curved into symmetrical flourishes in the corners. To Ilsa’s left a column stood with an urn upon it.
Her throat contracted. Was there water in the urn?
A long stool sat to the right with a length of fine woolen cloth draped over one end, as if someone had discarded it there.
Both the urn and the stool seemed to invite further exploration. There would be sights beyond the curtain she had never seen before. She raised her hand to pull aside the curtain then dropped it. Maybe she was supposed to walk around the curtain? She didn’t know and was ashamed of her ignorance.
She raised her hand again and dropped it, breathing hard.
No one would come to enquire what she wanted, even though the voices beyond the curtain must have heard the door open and close. Did they not care? Did they not worry who was standing there? Only, the door was guarded. Enemies would not get past the guards only to linger on the doorstep this way.
Ilsa curled her hand into a fist and moved beyond the curtain to the right, where the bench sat. Where the curtain ended, there was another four paces to the wall. Ilsa stepped into the space and paused, her heart leaping.
She had been right to expect new sights.
There were many women in the room. Some of them were standing or working at the back of the room. Four women rested on couches pulled into an open square in the middle of the room. One of the four women had the dark skin of a Saracen and the most beautiful eyes. Another had pale Saxon hair and the black eyes of a Celt. These two women both assessed Ilsa, then looked at the other two.
The remaining two ladies were the most beautiful women Ilsa had ever seen. They had raven black hair and black eyes and pale skin. Ilsa could see they were related, for they both had fine, pointed chins and large eyes fringed with heavy black lashes beneath strong brows.
They were both young. Sisters, Ilsa guessed, and barely into womanhood. T
heir hair was as curly as Ilsa’s, only they seemed to know the secret to keeping their curls tamed and under control, for their hair dropped in uniform waves down their backs. Jewelry glittered at their ears and throat and high on their slender arms.
They were staring at Ilsa.
“Who are you?” the older of the two asked. Her voice was low and refined.
“What is that smell?” the other asked, looking around the room.
The older woman wrinkled her nose. “I believe it is her.”
Ilsa gripped the string of her bow. Her cheeks heated. “I…fell in a puddle.”
The younger of the two sisters had been lying propped on one elbow on the divan. She sat up, bringing her shoes to the floor. The sea green tunic slithered off the divan and fell about her ankles. Her mantle was a darker green. “Evaine asks a good question. Who are you?”
“Ilsa.”
All four of the women looked at each other. The older sister, Evaine, who had already been sitting, picked up a metal cup from the table. Her fingers were long and graceful. They wrapped about the stem of the cup. Her gaze was direct. “Why are you here, Ilsa?” She sipped.
“You don’t know? I thought the king sent word ahead of us. He did not tell you?”
“No one disturbs us in this room,” Evaine said, her tone cold. “The message, if there is one, will be waiting for us in the triclinium.”
Ilsa blinked. She didn’t know what a triclinium was. “Then I suppose I must tell you.”
“Yes,” Evaine said.
“What sort of name is Ilsa?” the other sister asked. Her tone was curious rather than cold. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s Saxon,” the blond woman said, her voice low. “From the land of the Angles,” she added. “It is not a common name there, either.”
Ilsa stared at her, surprised. No one, not even her mother, could explain where her name came from. Was what this woman said true? She bore a Saxon name? Surely not… She shifted on her feet, discomfort writhing through her.
The younger sister pressed her fingers to her nose. “Perhaps you should tell us why you are here, Ilsa, then leave. With every movement you make…”
“Is that a bow over your shoulder?” the blonde woman asked.
“And arrows, too,” Evaine said, leaning back to peer behind Ilsa.
“I was hunting when the king found me—”
“You hunt?” both sisters asked together. Their eyes widened and horror filled them.
Ilsa’s heart hurt with the to-and-fro swings from calm to wildness. Now it beat at its cage with heavy fists. “When I want my family to eat, yes, I hunt,” she replied. Her voice was stiffer than she wanted it to be, for she sensed she could not afford to offend these women. They were high born and likely relatives of the king’s. Arawn had no children. Sisters, perhaps, or close cousins.
The sisters exchanged glances again. Evaine put her hands together on her knees. “Yes, I imagine one must do whatever one must to live, these days. You are to be commended. It does not explain why you stand in our chamber as you are.”
Ilsa squeezed her hand around the bow string. Now she must speak the words, she hesitated. Once they were spoken, then this… Madness, Arawn had called it, and it was a good word. Once Ilsa said the words aloud this madness would be known to others. It would be real.
Only there was no going back, now. She had given her word, as had the king.
“I am to marry Arawn,” Ilsa said, speaking each word carefully.
The Saracen woman’s lips parted. The servants and slaves at the back of the room stopped what they were doing to turn and gaze at Ilsa.
The two sisters remained motionless, their faces like marble. Not a hint of reaction showed even in their eyes. It was impossible to tell what they were feeling.
Ilsa had never met anyone who hid their emotions that way, except for Arawn. The villagers she knew, the children she had grown up with, their parents, her parents…everyone said exactly what was in their minds, at the moment it occurred to them. They swore or cried or screamed their anger. They laughed, too.
The room stayed still and silent for five long heart beats as the sisters stared at her.
Then Evaine brushed her hair back over her shoulder and twisted an earring back into place. Her fingers rested against her throat. Her gaze did not meet Ilsa’s eyes. “You know my brother is cursed?”
Ilsa couldn’t speak. Her throat ached, her chest was too tight. She nodded, instead.
The other sister, the younger one, plucked at a fold of the beautiful sea green gown. “Arawn has had four wives,” she said. “Princess Bethan, Lunid the Mad, Mabyn and Mair.” She almost chanted the names, as if she had said them the same way many times before. “They all died,” she added. “You know that?”
Ilsa nodded again.
“Yet you still agreed to marry him?” Evaine asked, her voice even lower than before, with a husky note.
“I may be the one to break the curse,” Ilsa said. “If I do, then not just your people will be saved. My own people suffer from the lack of rain. My parents are ill from it. I should not take the chance your brother offers me to make life better for all those people?”
Again, the astonished silence filled the room.
Ilse’s face was glowing with the outward revelation of her acute self-consciousness. She had spoken nothing but the truth, however. She lifted her chin.
“My, you are brave, aren’t you?” the younger sister murmured.
Ilsa shook her head. “Your brother is the brave one. He will do anything to break the curse and save his people. He is doing anything. He is marrying me. Look at me.” She spread her cloak. “I am not like you. Is it not bravery, to seize any opportunity, no matter what it looks like?”
The younger girl smiled. “You have an uncommon way of thinking, Ilsa the Hunter. Is that why Arawn wants to marry you, among the many women he could have chosen?”
“I don’t know why he chose me,” Ilsa admitted. “I was the first suitable woman he came across, I suppose.”
“Arawn went looking for the spring this morning,” the blonde woman murmured.
Evaine’s brows came together. “I do not understand. My brother has remained unmarried since Mair died. Why did he rise from his bed this morning and decide he would ask the first suitable woman he found?”
Ilsa recalled the quick snatches of conversation she had heard pass between Uther and Arawn, before Arawn had told her he intended to marry her. “I believe it was Prince Uther’s idea that Arawn should propose to the first woman he found. I don’t think they were expecting to find me, though.”
Every woman was watching her now. All pretense of work had halted.
The Saracen woman groaned. “Uther. That explains much. The man thinks with…something other than his brain.”
Laughter fluttered around the room.
Evaine smiled. “He thinks well enough to find you as beautiful as you truly are, Yasmine. How long was it?”
“She kept him coming back for nearly a year,” the Saxon woman said, sounding proud.
Evaine held up a hand. “A moment. Ilsa…that is your name, you said?”
Ilsa nodded.
“You are telling us you tripped in the mud and it caused my brother to propose he marry you?”
“He stole my deer, first.”
A blink of surprised silence, then they laughed again, this time louder and longer.
Then Evaine clapped her hands. “Yasmine, Frida, we cannot have Arawn’s new bride attend supper looking as she does.” Evaine glanced at Ilsa. “Did he give you even a moment to pack? Or do you stand with all you brought?”
“This is all I thought worth bringing,” Ilsa said. “I am the daughter of…” She cleared her throat. “I am no one. Nothing I have is worthy of a king’s house.”
Yasmine and Frida were rising to their feet. They were both tall and slender, their dresses only slightly less elaborate than those of Evaine and her sister.
“She looks to be your height and the same waist, Elaine,” Evaine said. “Would you mind?”
The younger sister shook her head. “Not at all. Yasmine, my brown dress would suit her hair color. And the copper jewelry.”
Jasmine nodded.
Frida picked up a light blue cloak from the end of the divan where she had been sitting and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. “Come,” she told Ilsa.
“To where?” Ilsa asked.
“The bath house,” Frida told her. “To wash the mud away.”
“And that is just the start,” Yasmine added, stepping up beside her and wrapping a dull yellow mantle around her own shoulders. “Bridget, would you collect the gown and the jewelry? Shoes and a mantle, too. It doesn’t matter which for right now.”
One slave, wearing a simple tunic, put down the bowl she was holding and hurried away.
“Come along,” Yasmine told Ilsa.
As shedding her filthy clothes and removing the stench was just as attractive to Ilsa, she turned and followed them out of the room. She heard the sisters, Evaine and Elaine, whispering behind her, but didn’t care. To be clean, truly clean, was compensation enough for the moment.
When they emerged onto the verandah, one guard plucked the torch from the sconce on the wall. He withdrew his sword, then walked in front of them, leading the way.
The bath house was a tall building detached from the main house. There were multiple doors, yet the guard led them to a portal on the far side of the building.
“The women’s entrance,” Yasmine told Ilsa. “When you are permitted to bathe, then make sure you use this door, or you will find yourself among a lot of naked, sweating men. Unless you want to end up that way!” She laughed as she pushed open the door.
“This one time, we won’t ask for permission,” Frida added, as she waved Ilsa into the room. “Your state is such that nothing short of a bath will do.” The bath house door closed behind them, leaving the guard outside.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 20