The room was covered in tiles. Not just the floor, but the walls and the roof were plastered with decorative, colorful tiles in pleasing patterns of blue and green and white.
The air was warm and moist. Instantly, Ilsa’s skin prickled. The dried mud and dirt itched.
Both Yasmine and Frida were removing their jewelry, unwinding their mantles and unclipping their gowns. They dropped everything on to the wooden bench against the wall.
Frida paused, her belt in her hand. “You’ve been to a bathhouse, yes?”
Ilsa shook her head.
Yasmine raised a dark brow. It was the only surprise either of them showed.
“You are fortunate no one is using the bath at the moment,” Yasmine said with a crisp tone. “My first time, there were dozens more women.”
“It’s the lack of rain,” Frida said. “Here, let me help with that…those things.” She pulled the bow off Ilsa’s shoulder and laid it on the bench. “Arawn insists that we in the house preserve the water supply and live as everyone else in the kingdom must live right now. So, little water to drink, even less water to bathe and we are only permitted to use the bathhouse when the king gives his consent.”
“I used to bathe every single day,” Yasmine added. She was naked except for her sandals. She bent to untie them, as unconcerned as she would be if she was clothed.
Frida and Yasmine between them helped Ilsa remove her clothes, too. She stretched and wriggled her toes against the mosaics under her feet. They were warm, which she had not expected.
“The hypocaust runs under here, too,” Yasmine said, in response to Ilsa’s startled glance at the tiles.
“I do believe there is mud in your hair where the thong is tied, too,” Frida said, the end of Ilsa’s braid in her hands.
“Cut the thong,” Yasmine said. “Leather is easy to get.” She picked up her sandals and took a small knife out of one of them and held it out to Frida.
“Oh, and the mud has clumped the hair into a hard lump, too,” Frida said.
“Leave it. The caldarium will take care of that.” Yasmine moved toward one of two inner doors, her skin gleaming as she walked.
Thankful for the lack of people, Ilsa followed her. She stepped into a long room with pillars around all four edges. Between the pillars was another man-made pool of water. The still water steamed. Torches flickered along the walls, making the surface of the water glint redly. Through the water, Ilsa could see more tiles, most of them white. Black tiles were laid in a border pattern around the edges of the pool.
Ilsa’s face and neck itched even harder. It was hot in the room. There were more wooden benches along the walls, between the sconces. Yasmine and Frida sat on one. Frida patted the bench. “Relax. You cannot jump into the water just yet.”
“We have to get you clean, first. It takes time,” Yasmine added. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Bewildered, Ilsa sat. She gripped her hands together. Sweat slicked between them. Her skin prickled all over and her face and the back of her neck was damp. It was the heat. She had never experienced such heat before.
“You really intend to marry Arawn?” Yasmine asked.
Ilsa swallowed. “I must.”
“Because you think you can break the curse?”
“Because I might break the curse. I must try, at least.”
“Princess Bethan, Lunid the Mad, Mabyn and Mair,” Frida said, in the same sing-song voice tone Elaine had used. “Arawn was twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-nine and thirty years old. Four sons, he has lost. Even without the curse, it is a burden no man should have to bear. Yet, he tries again.” She shook her head.
“Because he believes in the curse and the cure,” Yasmine said.
“He believed Rhonwen,” Frida added. “Only, now she has gone and the girl-child leads the underworld.”
“Nimue is older than Evaine,” Yasmine pointed out with a kind tone. “She performed a miracle just as they all must to be chosen.”
Frida closed her eyes, too. “I suppose the Lady will come to inspect you, too, Ilsa, and pass judgment.”
Ilsa jumped.
“The Lady has been a guide and mentor to the king of Brocéliande for hundreds of years,” Yasmine said. “She will want to meet you. Frida makes Nimue sound like an ogre when none of us know her well. She was only appointed last year and she has not spent much time in Lorient.”
“Rhonwen visited Lorient all the time, I’m told,” Frida said. “Arawn’s father might have had something to do with that.” Her smile was wicked.
“Or his mother?” Yasmine asked, her smile just as mischievous. “The queen was a great beauty. Consider Evaine and Elaine.”
“They are like Arawn,” Frida said and laughed.
“He is a great beauty, too,” Yasmine said, her tone calm. “No one notices because all they can see when they look at him is the curse and what it is doing to their kingdom.”
Ilsa hung her head. The heat was sapping all her strength. She pressed her hands against the edge of the bench, propping herself up while she listened to the two woman. She learned much about Arawn’s household in those few short minutes.
Evaine was fifteen and promised to Bors, the King of Guannes, the kingdom lying by the southern borders of Morbihan. The wedding would take place soon. Elaine, the younger sister, was nearly fourteen but not yet promised to any man, while most men already made fools of themselves over her. Her beauty would outshine Evaine’s, it was judged. Arawn was taking his time finding the most advantageous match for her.
Rhonwen the Great, the previous Lady of the Lake, was considered to be the most powerful Lady who had ever lived. Many years ago, on the eve of Arawn’s first marriage, she had predicted with her Sight how Arawn would break the curse on his land.
Everyone in Brocéliande seemed to believe the curse and that it could be lifted. None knew if Arawn believed it because he had not instantly taken another wife the moment Mair died. The news that he was to be married once more would bring instant relief to the entire kingdom.
Ilsa’s eyes stung as sweat ran into them. She used it as an excuse to wipe at her face and hide her expression as Yasmine finished speaking her guess about how everyone felt about Arawn marrying again.
If everyone was so relieved by the news, wouldn’t they watch Ilsa with close concentration, waiting for her to deliver the child who would break the curse?
She shuddered, despite the heat.
Her fingers came away from her face coated in the black mud she had acquired at the watering hole. The heat and moisture in this room had turned the dust on her face back into mud.
Ilsa grimaced again. There was nowhere to wipe it.
“I think that should be sufficient time,” Frida said. “Ilsa isn’t used to this.”
Yasmine stood and moved over to a small table in the corner. She picked up a stoppered jar and a silver implement that looked like a knife curved into the shape of a crescent moon.
Frida worked on Ilsa’s braid. “Yes, the soil has loosened.” She unraveled the braid with quick movements and exclaimed. “Why, your hair is actually this curly!”
“Isn’t yours?” Ilsa asked, putting her hand to her hair.
“No,” Frida said. “Yasmine’s is, far more than yours. Mine is straight and flat. See?” She turned her shoulder so Ilsa could see her flaxen locks. They laid against her back, limp and straight, all the wavy curls gone.
“You make the curls?” Ilsa breathed, astonished.
“Over and over again,” Frida said ruefully and untangled the last of Ilsa’s hair and let it drop. “Normally you would pin your hair to keep it dry while you are in the bath. Not this time, though. Hold it up for now, until the dirt is gone. Then you can let it drop again.”
“The oil will help with the frizz, too,” Yasmine said. She unstopped the jar and poured the contents into her hand. It was a pale green oil. “Your hair,” she added, cupping the oil in her palm.
Ilsa hurried to pick up her hair and wind it up
into a coil she could hold on the top of her head.
Then Yasmine smeared the oil along Ilsa’s other arm, for the full length. She worked the oil in, her fingers kneading. Frida did the same to Ilsa’s back and all the way down to her feet, while Yasmine moved around to her front and repeated the application of the oil. Frida asked Ilsa to swap her hands and rubbed in the oil down the length of her other arm, including her fingers and even the fingernails.
“Normally, bath slaves would do this service,” Yasmine said. “They have all been assigned other duties until the bathhouse is properly open for everyone once more.”
“You are not slaves?” Ilsa asked, the question popping out before she could consider the wisdom of such bluntness. She didn’t want to offend anyone. Not until she understood who everyone was. She didn’t know if it was impolite to ask directly if one was a slave.
Yasmine laughed. “Of course, we are!”
“You sit with the princesses, and you wear…you don’t wear tunics.”
Frida shook her head. “We have earned our status,” she said quietly. “Yasmine knows mathematics, geometry and…and...” She frowned.
“Engineering,” Yasmina supplied. “Although, I am valued more because I can read and write.”
“What earned you your favored status, then?” Ilsa asked Frida.
“Frida knows seven languages,” Yasmine said.
“You caught Prince Uther’s eye,” Ilsa said to Yasmine.
“That did help,” Yasmine admitted, her smile not slipping. “You, though, can hunt,” she added, speaking to Ilsa.
“And slip in mud,” Frida finished. She picked up the silver scythe-like tool and lifted Ilsa’s arm. “Hold still.”
Ilsa caught her breath and held it, wondering what happened now. Frida laid the smooth edge of the scythe against her arm and scraped it down her body. Ilsa watched the oil gather on the flat side of the tool, then run to the point and drip to the floor. Where the blunt blade had scraped, Ilsa’s flesh was smooth and clean.
Frida repeated the long stroking motion all over her body. Once she had finished with Ilsa’s back she said, “You can let go of your hair now.” Ilsa let it drop and it brushed her buttocks. Dried tendrils scraped there and she shuddered at the touch.
She was not completely clean, yet.
“This is how the Romans do it, is it not?” she asked.
“It is very Roman,” Yasmine said. “Although you will learn that Arawn is completely Roman, too. All the great families of Lesser Britain reckon their roots back to Rome itself. Ambrosius’ great grandfather was Macsen Wledig, who was crowned Emperor of Rome. They call Ambrosius the last true great Roman of Britain.”
“Perhaps with good reason,” Frida said, her tone mischievous once more.
Yasmine rolled her eyes. “Just because he has not married or had a son does not mean he is Roman in that way. He is busy, working to take back Britain from the Black Dog and win it for Britons everywhere, including us.”
“Who is the Black Dog?” Ilsa asked.
Yasmine looked startled. “You’ve never heard of Vortigern?”
“Not by that name. I know Vortigern is the High King of Britain.” Ilsa remembered her mother and father talking about Vortigern. Neither of them had spoken of him in flattering terms, although never where anyone could hear them. When others were nearby, her parents were polite in their speech about the High King.
Ilsa had never heard anyone openly disparage the High King the way these two women were. She would have to think about this, later.
“Now, into the bath,” Yasmine said, as Frida put down the tool. “Ease in slowly, for the hypocaust is kept running all day and night, even when no one is using the bath. It takes too long to heat, otherwise.”
Ilsa stepped to the low edge of the pool and sat on it and dangled her feet just above the water. “Is it deep?” she asked, for she could not swim.
“You can stand in it,” Frida told her. She put her hand on the bricks along the edge and jumped into the water, then stood. The water lapped at her upper chest. She rolled her head back, then sank into the water until all but her face was covered. Her arms waved, helping her stay upright
Encouraged, Ilsa dropped into the water herself. It was hot, almost scalding. She drew in a shocked breath.
“It will feel comfortable in a few minutes,” Yasmine told her. She moved around the corner of the bath, then climbed into the water using the steps there. She pushed through the water and floated to where Ilsa stood. “Only a few minutes in here, then we must move into the frigidarium.”
“It is Latin for the cold room. Everyone else just calls it the cold room,” Frida told Ilsa. “Only Yasmine insists upon calling the rooms their Roman names.”
Cold didn’t sound very appealing.
Frida worked the water into Ilsa’s hair, getting rid of the last of the mud and the dirt. By the time she was satisfied, Ilsa was more than ready to step out of the hot water. She was being cooked.
Naked, still dripping water from the pool, the three of them moved through the door in the middle of the long wall. The room on the other side was the mirror image of this one, but cool underfoot. The air was cool, too.
“Don’t wait!” Yasmine called as she stepped down into the water and pushed off from the steps with a gliding motion.
Frida jumped in the way she had vaulted into the hot water.
Ilsa lowered herself to the bricks, then into the water and drew in another shocked gasp. The water was icy!
“It feels as if it arrived from the peak of a mountain. In a moment, though, you will realize the water is a normal temperature,” Yasmine said. “You must wait for your blood to adjust.”
Ilsa shivered. She kept herself in the water despite the shivers. After a moment, it did feel warmer. Her heart, which she had been hearing in her head, grew quieter. Her body tingled.
“Now you can get out,” Yasmine said. She had been watching Ilsa relax as she adjusted to the water.
They stepped out of the pool and padded, dripping, to the doorway at the end of the long room. Another room lay beyond. When they stepped into it, Ilsa realized they had come full circle. This was the room where they had removed their clothes. Yasmine’s deep yellow cloak sat folded on the bench at the end, beside Ilsa’s muddy hunting clothes.
Ilsa shuddered at the idea of putting them back on.
Frida moved over to the bench. “Did Bridget bring…yes, she did.” She bent and picked up a neatly folded pile of rich fabrics. Ilsa could see linen and wool and at the bottom, pale suede.
On the top, beneath Frida’s hand, was a small mound of gleaming copper. That would be the jewelry Yasmine had instructed the slave, Bridget, to fetch.
Frida put the clothes on the bench in front of Ilsa. “Would you like me to help you?” Her voice was even, devoid of any judgment.
Ilsa swallowed. “I suppose you must, for I don’t know where to begin.” Her cheeks heated again. The air in this room, which had been too hot and too damp when she had first stepped inside, now was dry and lukewarm against her skin. The tiles against her feet were warm, too. Both the air and the warm tiles were drying her damp skin without need of a cloth. She remembered that the hypocaust ran under the floor. She had thought a hypocaust was something that heated water, not air. Perhaps it did both.
Her ignorance was making her feel foolish, especially in front of these highly accomplished women.
They, though, did not seem to care that she didn’t know what all the layers of clothing were for. Frida put the jewelry aside and the top garment of dark brown. She unfolded the layer beneath, which was the green of pale new spring leaves. Ilsa could see it was linen but of such fineness it matched the tunic Arawn had been wearing. The silky fabric gleamed.
“First, the underdress,” Frida said and dropped the gown over Ilsa’s damp hair. Ilsa got her arms up and pushed her hands into the sleeves. This, then, was a garment she understood. She had worn a woolen version of this all her life when she
had not been hunting. The wool itched yet it had been warm. Her underdresses had always been the same unvarying shade of undyed off-white that came from a sheep’s back.
This underdress, though, was gloriously soft against her skin and it stretched, molding itself over her breasts and hips, while still pulling in around her waist.
Ilsa looked down at the dress, which swept the floor and hugged her wrists, astonished. “How does it do that?” she demanded. “It is impossible. Flax does not stretch in that way!”
Frida laughed. “It is a trick in the cutting of the garment. Bridget may explain it better. I lack the understanding.”
“In the cutting?” Ilsa shook her head. “How can cutting a cloth make it give this way?” She pulled at the fabric over her hip and let it go, watching it settle back around her hips once more. She smoothed a hand over the shift, enjoying the color and the texture.
Frida shook out the dark brown garment and lifted it. “The gown,” she said.
Ilsa nodded. She realized she did know what the garments were for. She had failed to recognize the basic use of them, too dazzled by their richness and color and fine quality.
She pushed her arms into the loose sleeves of the gown. The sleeves came down to her wrists and were far wider and longer than the shift beneath. The gown was made of wool as fine as the linen beneath. It was marvelously soft and warm and not at all prickly because of the linen shift between her skin and the wool.
The neck of the gown came down to a point just above her breasts. The round neckline of the shift showed under it, ending high at the base of her throat.
A border was embroidered around the neck and sleeves of the dress, in a red gold color that went well with the brown.
“It does suit her hair, doesn’t it?” Frida said to Yasmine, who was finishing dressing herself.
This gown, just like the undershift, stretched and moved as she did, making the most of her waist and hips and breasts. The girdle Frida wound around Ilsa’s waist was embroidered cloth, matching the border on the dress. Frida tied it in a knot to hang against her abdomen. The folds of the gown swept the floor.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 21