“I do believe you are shorter than Elaine,” Frida said, picking up the hem and letting it drop back onto the tiles. “We can turn up the hem later. For now, you will be warm, at least.”
Ilsa couldn’t recall being so warm and comfortable, or so clean, before this day. Who cared if her hem was too long? Right now, she did not.
“Worry about the jewelry later,” Yasmine said. “We should move out of the bathhouse so they can shut it down for the night. Supper will be soon. We’ll take her back to our wing and fix her hair there.”
Ilsa put her hand to her hair. What was wrong with it? It was clean.
Frida nodded and pushed the green garment to one side and picked up the suede. It was a pair of shoes with laces, delicate and made of suede so soft they laid flat when no foot was in them.
Frida dropped to her knees in front of Ilsa. “Your foot,” she said, holding out one of the shoes.
Ilsa lifted the hem of the dress and raised her foot and held it out. Frida slid the shoe into place and tightened the lacing, then tied a bow. There was a stiff layer of suede beneath Ilsa’s foot, which would protect her soles.
Frida worked the other shoe into place and tied it. Then she reached for her own clothes, tossing them on with a speed that was amazing.
The green wool she had put aside settled around Ilsa’s shoulders. It was a cloak. The wool was thick and sturdy. It would repel rain. It was very warm.
Yasmine bundled up Ilsa’s hair and lifted a hood over it. “There’s no need to walk about in the night air with wet hair, for everyone to see,” she said.
Frida scooped up the jewelry and flexed her shoulders. “Now it is too warm in here. Let’s hurry back. I’m hungry!”
Yasmine pulled the outside door open and Ilsa drew in a breath as the chilled air of autumn, rich with cooking smells and crumbling leaves, washed over her. She picked up her hems, for the first time in her life unwilling to let them drag in the dirt.
They moved out of the bathhouse with Yasmine in front of her and Frida behind her. The guard lifted himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, then paused mid-lean. His mouth opened. His dark eyes widened.
“Holy mother Mary, save me,” he whispered.
With a start, Ilsa realized he was staring at her.
“Gavin!” Yasmine snapped.
He straightened and took out his sword. “This way,” he said, sounding winded. He strode to get in front of them and escort them back to the house.
They were halfway between the bathhouse and the nearest wing of the house, heading for the big square in the center, when six horses clattered past them and into the square, their hoof-beats echoing against the walls of the house. The riders were outlined by lamps and braziers blazing in the big, open area in the middle of the house, beyond the pillars.
The room had been enclosed in darkness when Ilsa first arrived. It was not dark now. People gathered there. There were divans and tables and a tall chair with arms and curved feet which four men were lifting and moving to one side.
“Who is the man on the horse behind Drogan?” Yasmine asked Gavin, the guard.
“I heard Drogan leaving. He said he was heading out to bring back the holy man from the chapel in the woods.”
“The mad man? The one who falls down and prophesies?” Frida asked, her tone one of dread.
“That be the man,” Gavin confirmed. “He looks the part, doesn’t he?” His tone was derisive, for the old man who was being helped down from the back of the big war horse was dirty, his silver hair and beard longer than his arms, and his robe ragged at the hem and knees. He wore no cloak and his bare feet were wrapped in rags which held worn sandals against them.
Yasmine came to a halt and turned to Frida and Ilsa. She brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Stars and suns!” she whispered. “Arawn intends to marry Ilsa tonight!”
Chapter Seven
Arawn’s anger rode upon his shoulder like a black hawk, all the way back to Lorient. The press of business generated by his changed circumstances pushed his temper aside, though. He moved about the house with Stilicho just behind and sent men on errands and gave orders. He was disrupting the routine of supper and sleep, including his own, although no one complained. They would likely vent their frustration once he left. Yet they were doing the work and that was all he asked.
There were many startled looks, though. Much head and chin scratching greeted his requests.
Arawn had no time to explain. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to explain what he was doing. After three years he would marry the first suitable woman to appear before him. Reckless? Yes. Foolhardy? Perhaps. Only time would answer if this was a magnificent and wasted gesture, or the salvation of his people.
He wasn’t sure when his amusement at Uther’s heavy-handed prodding turned into an iron determination to do something—anything—to correct the course of misery his kingdom had been steering for years now. He only knew that somewhere in this long day the discomfort sitting in his belly for more than three years evolved into a grim relentlessness.
If marrying and getting a child would cure the ills besetting his domains, then so be it. He would marry a dozen women this moment, like the sultans and emperors of the east Yasmine sometimes spoke about, if committing such a Christian sin would break the curse.
Marrying one woman, though, would offend no gods. Therefore, he would marry, and spit in fate’s eye.
When the reception hall was cleared and prepared and Arawn called it done, Stilicho looked down at his wax board and cleared his throat.
Arawn looked at him.
“Perhaps the lady Ilsa should be informed about these arrangements?”
Arawn dropped his arms. “She has not been told, yet?”
Stilicho smoothed his hand over his bearded chin. “I believe she has been bathing. Now, though, the women have returned. I saw them cross the quadrangle a few minutes ago.”
Arawn nodded. “Yes, let her know to attend me at once. I will change into…” He looked down at his tunic. It was grimy from a day of sweat and hard riding and now these last minute frantic preparations. He didn’t know what a king was expected to wear to his fifth wedding, although something clean would be the least his bride should expect. “I will change into something else,” he muttered.
Stilicho bowed and left the hall.
Arawn moved through the house to his chamber. “Ralf!”
The cheeky boy who had been tending him for a year hurried into the antechamber. “My lord! I heard! You are to be married.” His eyes were bright and his smile wide. He turned and followed Arawn into the bedchamber itself.
“Tonight,” Arawn said, yanking off his mantle and tunic. “Has my red robe come back from the fuller’s? And the deer hide boots. Pour me water, please, then fetch the clothes.”
Warned by his tone, Ralf asked no more questions. He slopped half a pitcher of warmed water into the bowl on the stand then hurried to collect the items Arawn requested.
As Arawn washed and dressed, he heard men collecting in the antechamber. They would have dozens of questions they must withhold for now. He would see this through, then deal with their concerns. Their troubles would still be there tomorrow. They always were. He could list what most of the complaints would be, anyway.
Gerrault would be there, to point out that his neighbor, Yeltin, was still harvesting the field at the bottom of the valley despite warnings. Occlim would be there to petition for more water for his ailing village, as if he was more deprived than anyone in the kingdom. There would be fights and squabbles over land and water and cattle and sheep and grain. Each year the water levels dropped, tensions rose and conflicts with them. Arawn’s soldiers were spending far more time on the road patrolling once peaceful villages and small towns, for their presence alone would keep the tensions below boiling point.
Arawn finished buckling his belt while Ralf held his cloak and the habitual worries cascaded through Arawn’s mind in an endless cycle. He leaned against the
washstand, drawing a deep breath.
“My lord?” Ralf asked, puzzled.
Let this marriage be the one! Arawn recalled the dust-caked and mud-daubed woman he’d brought back here. Real spirit lived beneath the dirt and the masculine clothes.
Although, what did it matter how she looked, or what her nature was? He trusted Uther’s judgment when it came to measuring a woman. Uther said she met the criteria. It was all that was needed.
He didn’t care who she was, although others in the kingdom might find her true parentage a comfort in the face of this hasty marriage. It would help her find acceptance.
Although, did it matter if she was accepted by his people? Once, he might have worried about such matters. He could no longer afford the luxury.
Arawn straightened and took the cloak from Ralf. “Tell Stilicho I am coming and to bring the priest.” He fastened the cloak himself. “Oh, and he must bring the girl, too.”
“Girl, my lord?”
“Ilsa.” Such an odd name.
Ralf knew better than to demand explanations of him. He hurried away. He would likely interrogate Stilicho and learn what he wanted from the slave. Ralf was good at staying ahead of rumors.
Arawn’s comb was missing. He smoothed his fingers through his hair and called it done.
Such a lack of preparations for his own wedding should have bothered him more than it did. There was a perverse satisfaction in treating the occasion with off-hand indifference. He had treated none of his previous marriages so casually. Maybe, if he did everything the exact opposite of how he behaved in the past, it would change the outcome of this marriage.
At the least, it saved him effort and worry. Both were already in plentiful supply.
He moved back through the house. Muted hysteria sounded as residents and servants and slaves prepared for the wedding and their much-delayed supper, which was to follow.
It was bright to the point of dazzling in the reception hall. All the lamps were lit and the sconces all burned. The fire pit at the front of the hall blazed, filling the cavernous, open-ended room with warm air. The ancient hypocaust did not serve this area of the house.
The house once belonged to a great Roman family, who fled back to Rome when the legions left. Many British kings’ houses once belonged to Romans. This house had been the main country residence of the family. It was built with the best Roman skills and designs now lost to Britain. Despite the house being more than a hundred years old, the hypocaust still worked well.
Arawn considered the fire pit at the front of the hall, where the flames danced. The fire pit had been his father’s innovation. The square pit was once a pool where rain collected through the matching vent in the roof, overhead. The last time his father slipped on the wet tiles around the pool, he ordered the roof be filled in and the pool used as a fire pit. “Flames can welcome my guests. This is Lesser Britain, not that godless hellhole in the east. Warmth is a better gift than water!”
Until these last few years, Arawn appreciated the warmth the flames generated whenever he stood in the chilly hall to greet dignitaries and diplomats. Now, though, he would give up the fire in a heartbeat, to have the pool with its fresh rainwater returned. Only, it had not rained for nearly a year and the pool would have long been emptied and dry.
The household was gathering in the hall, facing the hastily set up table serving as an altar. No one, not even Stilicho, who seemed to know everything, was sure what religion or gods the holy man followed. Therefore the table was laid with a clean linen cloth and candles and nothing else.
It was another break with custom. On previous occasions, to appease the mostly Christian people of his kingdom, Arawn had been married by a Christian priest. Only, the nearest true Christian priest ordained by their God was a day’s ride away.
The holy man, though, was revered and thought to be touched by at least one god and had agreed to perform the marriage. He would do.
Stilicho’s head appeared above the crowd. The people separated to let him and the holy man through, the buzz of their conversation halting.
The man was ancient, bent and wrinkled. He shuffled, rather than lift his rag-covered feet. Someone had trimmed his beard since he arrived. The silver fringed his jaw and hid his wattled neck. His hair was combed and tied back. It made the man’s eyes stand out. They were a proper Celtic black while lit from within with fire and passion that was the province of much younger men. For now, he seemed to have all his senses about him and his gaze fixed up Arawn with steady assessment as he approached.
Arawn nodded at him. “They fed you, old man?”
“The salted mutton was excellent, thank you, my lord. Are you ready to embrace your future?” The question was sharply put.
Arawn blinked. He was used to vague wandering murmurs from the man, which was all he’d spoken, the few times they had met. Arawn was still unsure of the man’s name. He only knew the man lived beside and took care of the chapel in the woods. Some said the chapel was the most holy place in the kingdom after the enchanted heart of Brocéliande.
“I am ready, yes,” Arawn said, surprised into the blunt truth. The question stamped upon the hard knot of determination in his gut formed from the day’s misadventures.
“And your bride, my lord?” the man asked.
“She comes,” Stilicho murmured.
From the front of the hall came a whisper, like the stir of a sea breeze announcing the approaching end of the day.
Heads moved, people shuffled and shifted, forming a curving aisle through them. Along the curve walked Evaine and Elaine with their two companions and a third whom Arawn did not recognize.
The strange woman walked in front of all of them. She used one hand to lift the front of her gown as she walked. Arawn took in the pleasing curves of her hips and waist and the lift of her chin, the blue of her eyes…and drew in a sharp breath.
This was Ilsa.
He examined her, his heart hurrying a little faster. She was not tall. He thought Elaine, who was yet to reach her full height, was already taller. No wonder they’d thought Ilsa to be a boy, this morning! She would grow no more. Her figure was full, in all the right places and in pleasing proportion to the rest of her. The dress must belong to one of Arawn’s sisters. Elaine’s, he suspected. It was one of their creations designed to entice a man with a simplicity that kept a man’s gaze on their figure. He’d seen grown men, old men, wise men, all trip and stammer when in his sisters’ presence.
The simple brown gown Ilsa wore was of the same magical type and on her, Arawn appreciated its power.
Her red gold hair swept up beneath a simple gold circlet, to tumble and curl down her back in riotous waves that Arawn longed to thrust his fingers into. She wore no veil. No cloak disguised the strength in her squared shoulders. Her gaze was upon him.
Arawn used the hand she could not see to tug his robe into place. Perhaps he should have looked harder for the comb.
Her jaw was fine and clear, her chin pointed and her eyes wide. Now he knew who her father was, Arawn could see Budic’s features in her face. Her eyes were the same pale blue of a hot summer’s day, rimmed with black and mesmerizing when trained upon a man, as she was doing to him now.
Arawn cleared his throat and turned to face the holy man as she stepped up alongside him.
The holy man gazed at Ilsa for a long, silent moment. “Ah…!” he breathed, as if he only now understood something he did not care to explain. Then he raised his hands for silence. “Arawn, King of Brocéliande and Ilsa, princess and daughter of Budic.”
A soft intake of breath sounded. Whispers.
Who had given her sire’s name to the holy man? Arawn had not told Stilicho, and everyone who traveled with him today knew the value of discretion. If he learned it was one of them…
“You have agreed to be united in marriage,” the man continued. “Does anyone here dispute the match, or know it to be unholy in the eyes of any god known to man?”
No one spoke loudly or called
out, although the whispers continued.
The holy man nodded, as if he expected no objections. “Then, Ilsa of Morbihan, you swear you enter this marriage of your own free will, to obey the laws of this land and its king, to serve its people and its gods faithfully?”
Ilsa swallowed. Arawn saw her throat work, the fine flesh there moving. Her skin, which had been covered in a fine gray dust all day, he could now see was soft and unlined.
“I swear,” she whispered.
“King Arawn, do you swear you enter this marriage of your own free will, to obey the gods and serve your people and protect them, including your wife?”
As it was the only reason he stood here, Arawn nodded. “I swear.”
Again, the man nodded as if he expected nothing less. “The gods find this a pleasing arrangement and approve the union. I name thee Queen Ilsa of Brocéliande, mate of King Arawn of Brocéliande. May the union be blessed by all gods.”
There was a tick of silence, as everyone struggled to absorb that the wedding was done. The Christian priests took far longer to sanctify a marriage, with prayers and beseechments to heaven and threats to husband and wife if they dared stray from the true path.
Short as they were, these were far more truthful vows. Arawn turned toward Ilsa, who was staring at the holy man, her eyes wide with shock.
Arawn picked up her hand. It was tiny in his and cold. He bent her fingers over the side of his and lifted her hand to his mouth. She looked up at him, startled.
“Thank you for this,” he murmured and kissed her hand.
She smelled of lavender. His body tightened.
Until this moment, he had given no thought to the night ahead and the duties to be performed.
At the least, bedding the woman would be pleasurable. Pleasure was not something he had expected. Now, he could think of nothing else.
Chapter Eight
The big, heavy door closed on the last of the servants and slaves, leaving Ilsa alone in the airy, high-ceilinged room. A small brazier burned in the corner, with a tray beneath to catch ash and coals. The floor was of dark tiles, big and square, covered in furs. The walls were dark green.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 22