Ilsa remembered Yasmine’s tone, the way she had spoken. “Please fetch the comb…Rigantona, yes?”
Rigantona nodded. She was even older than Merryn. Her cheeks were ruddy and round and her dark hair stranded with gray. “Wife to lord Colwyn, my lady.”
“And who is lord Colwyn to the king?” Ilsa asked.
“His battle commander, my lady.” Rigantona’s cheeks turned an even deeper red, although it was not shame, Ilsa realized. It was pride that flushed her face.
Lord Colwyn was likely the brown-haired man who had sat beside the king last night.
Her heart leaped about her chest as Ilsa said, “The comb, please, Rigantona.” It was the first time she had consciously given an order. It felt strange. She waited, her breath held, for Rigantona to laugh at her or refuse to obey.
Instead, the lady hurried away.
Ilsa looked about the big chamber, trying to ignore the squeezing and tightness in her chest. “My clothes I wore yesterday. Have they come back from the fullers? I was told they would be here for me.”
Dilas, the last of the ladies and younger than all of them, yet still older than Ilsa, took a small step forward. She had soft, fine brown hair that curled in ringlets that appeared to be natural. Her brows were also fine and narrow. “I can make enquiries, my lady.”
“If you would. I would like them back, particularly the knives—I have nothing to eat with right now.”
“I will find them,” Dilas said and left.
Her departure left Merryn and the tall lady, Eseld. Eseld smoothed and resettled the wide sleeve of her green gown over her arm with finnicky attention.
It reminded Ilsa of a question. She hesitated to ask because it would betray yet again just how ignorant she was of life in a king’s household. Yet, there was no other way she might learn quickly than to ask. She hid her fist in a fold of her dress and braced herself for Merryn’s disdain. “How do I arrange fresh garments for myself?”
“Fresh?” Merryn repeated.
“New. Properly fitting.” She lifted the hem of the dress, which was a hand-span too long. “Worthy of being worn by the king’s new wife.”
Merryn shrugged. “You ask for what you want, my lady.” Her tone said the answer should be obvious to anyone.
Ilsa ignored the tone. “Then I am asking.”
Eseld’s attention sharpened. “What is it you require, my lady? A gown? A cloak?”
“Everything,” Ilsa said. “This gown is borrowed and the clothes I wore here are unfit for inside the house.” She held up her arm so the brown gown fell back and revealed the undershift. “I would like an underdress as fine as this one. It…the king approved of it.” Her cheeks flamed again.
Merryn’s smile, this time, was full of heated knowledge. “Eseld,” she said, her gaze upon Ilsa. “The bolt of undyed linen you wove, the one which was darker than the rest…it was just as fine, yes?”
“I make the best linen in the kingdom,” Eseld said, with deep pride in her voice. “The flax, though, was too old. The color was off. It was from last year’s harvest and the flax was short, although it combed out properly. I don’t know how dye would take to it.”
“Maybe not dye it at all,” Merryn said. “If I remember it, the color was golden brown which did not suit the princesses at all. It would complement my lady’s hair, though.”
Eseld considered and nodded. “Indeed, it would. I will fetch the bolt.”
“I will collect the scissors and needles and thread,” Merryn added. Both the women departed, leaving Ilsa alone in the room.
She let out her breath, relaxing. Finally, she was alone. She moved about the big room, examining it. There were three high windows along the length, the windows barred with a wooden grid. Light did not pour through these windows as it had through the window in Arawn’s chamber, for this room laid on the other side of the house. However, doves cooed just outside the windows and the shadow of vines waved over them. Both were cheerful notes.
Unlike Arawn’s chamber, the bed in this one was not shielded by a screen. It sat frankly in the open, the head pushed against the wall beneath the windows, stealing the attention of anyone who stepped into the room. The bed was nearly as big as the king’s, although the covers were woolen blankets, not furs. There were more cushions, though.
Because the bed took up the middle of the room, everything else gathered around it. No large space was left for other activities. A few stools sat about a single low table, beside a cupboard that matched Arawn’s in size. There was no chest.
The walls were a soft, warm yellow that reminded Ilsa of the butter her mother made. Butter was likely not used in this great household, where food and drink was liberally doused with herbs. They would look down upon butter-eaters, Ilsa guessed.
She liked the color of the walls, though. She pressed her hand against one and felt the chill of the stone.
Every queen who had come before her, including Arawn’s most unfortunate former wives, had used these rooms. Perhaps, they had touched these walls just as she was. They had been princesses and grand ladies yet none of them had broken the curse.
Ilsa examined her bare hand spread against the wall and gasped. It was her left hand. The ring was missing.
She whirled to look at the door. The ring must have slipped off during the night. It would be in Arawn’s bed, buried in the furs. She must get it back…only, she did not want to face an antechamber full of men with their stares and their smiles.
Rigantona pushed open the door and stepped in and waved a bone handled comb. “I found it. If you would sit, my lady, I will comb out your hair for you.”
No one had combed her hair for her since she was a small girl. Ilsa put her hand to the bulky mess of curls. “Before you do,” she hedged, “tell me—is it unforgiveable for a woman to go into the king’s antechamber when the men are assembled there?”
“You are the queen,” Rigantona said, her tone flat. “You can go where you want.”
Ilsa absorbed that. “Can you go there?” She held up her bare hand. “The ring the king gave me last night…I left it in the king’s bed and would like to retrieve it before he learns of my carelessness. Can you retrieve it without everyone knowing what I have done?”
Rigantona’s eyes were merry as she answered. “There is a much easier way to arrange it,” she said. “I will have my slave speak to Stilicho and he will arrange to have the ring brought here.”
“I don’t want anyone to know,” Ilsa said.
Rigantona shrugged. “They’re only slaves.”
Ilsa cleared her throat. There was no other way for her to collect the ring. She nodded. “Very well. Could you please arrange it. Here, give me the comb before you go.”
Rigantona gave her the comb and hurried away again.
Ilsa sat on a stool and tackled her hair, enjoying the few solitary moments before the ladies returned. When they wandered back one by one, they settled to the business of cutting and sewing a shift for her. While they worked, they discussed the design of a gown to wear over the top. They tapped Eseld’s extended memory of what cloth had already been woven and was waiting in the large storeroom for later use.
While they measured and draped linen against her body for exact measurements, Ilsa listened to their conversation, extracting from their chatter a good working picture of how the household operated. There were hints of responsibilities and tasks the queen was expected to take care of, including the assignment of servants and slaves, the preservation and storage of food for the winter, the entertainment of high born guests and more.
“Not that we’ve had a high born guest to entertain in years,” Merryn added as she snipped thread.
“Prince Uther is higher born than anyone, including the king,” Eseld pointed out. “He is a constant visitor.”
“Prince Uther visits for entertainment the queen cannot provide,” Dilas said, and giggled. The other three smiled.
Ilsa said nothing. In her short experience so far, she had not fo
und the act that Uther clearly considered so entertaining to be remotely pleasurable. Perhaps only men enjoyed it?
The day passed while she listened and thought, and the women worked. No one came to the room but slaves and Stilicho. The slaves brought food and drink—usually wine, for water was limited.
When the sun shone directly through the high windows, which told Ilsa it was low in the western sky, she stirred and told Merryn she wanted to bathe. The four women escorted Ilsa to the bathhouse, along with two guards who stood at the far end of the wide corridor between the queen’s chambers and the king’s. The guards swept up alongside the group of women without comment.
The four women were clearly friends, for they undressed without hesitation, still chatting happily. Their husbands, Ilsa had learned, all were high-ranking members of Arawn’s staff.
Ilsa relaxed in the heated air of the caldarium and closed her eyes. After some time had passed, she heard a cough nearby and opened her eyes. A woman stood before her. A slave, she guessed, for her hair was short and she wore a tunic and no shoes. The woman lifted the jar of oil in her hand. The other hand held the silver implement Yasmine had used yesterday.
“I have a bench ready for you, my lady,” the woman said and waved farther along the side of the pool.
One bench was laid with a sheet. Ilsa realized she was expected to lie on the sheet while the slave oiled and scraped her skin. She moved over to the bench and laid down on it. Here, at least, she could be alone as much as it seemed possible for a queen to be.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes again.
Bathing became her favorite part of the day. The next twelve days were repeats of the first, except for one critical difference. After supper, Ilsa was escorted by her ladies to her own chamber, where they undressed her and left her in the big bed to await her husband.
Arawn would arrive shortly after that. Their coupling was silent and swift and afterwards he would leave without comment.
Afterward, Ilsa would lie in the dark, her heart heavy and her eyes dry, until sleep claimed her.
She slept late because of her long vigils, which made the days shorter than ever. Even so, time stretched endlessly. Ilsa did not move out of her chamber except to bathe and to join the household in the triclinium for supper, after which, she returned to the chamber.
Every second day, Stilicho would ask for permission to enter and would give Ilsa a report on the status of the household. It took her many days to realize Stilicho managed most of the responsibilities that were properly the queen’s. His reports to her were formalities. He required no decisions from her.
One of the earliest of his reports brought news that cheered Ilsa immensely. He had stroked his beard and said, “I have received a message from your…parents.” He glanced at the four women listening to every word as they sewed. “Your…um…father.”
Ilsa nodded. “You refer to Pryce?”
“I do.”
“He is my father,” Ilsa said. “He raised me. King Budic merely supplied the seed that made me.”
Stilicho’s gaze met hers. Something other than his usual polite disdain showed in his eyes. “An apt distinction.” He inclined his head. “Your father and mother are both recovered from their illness. They have food and water aplenty and know of your changed status.”
Relief touched her. “Then the king did send people to look after them…”
“He said he would,” Stilicho said, the stiff tone back.
“Yes, only…” She bit her lip. “I thought he had forgotten. He said nothing.” In fact, Arawn had spoken to her less than many others in the household, even those who only saw her in the evenings.
“When a king gives his word, it is never broken,” Stilicho said, his tone one of reprimand.
“Unless the king’s name is Vortigern,” Merryn added, her eyes on her stitching.
“Or Hengist,” Dilas added.
“Hengist is a war chief. Saxons don’t have kings.”
Stilicho rolled his eyes and finished his report. Her parents were offered accommodation in the king’s house and had refused, as Ilsa had guessed they would. They had been invited to visit Lorient and their daughter whenever they wished. An escort would be arranged for them, although her mother had declined that offer, too.
Ilsa looked around the grand chamber and the fine appointments. If Budic lived as urbanely as this, then her mother would know exactly how different life here was from her quiet life in the cottage. Ilsa understood why her mother had refused to visit. “Perhaps it might be better if I were to visit them,” she told Stilicho.
He lifted a brow. “Do give me three days’ notice to arrange such a visit,” he said. “I would need to secure the king’s permission and arrange a proper escort…”
Ilsa pressed her teeth together. “I see,” she said. “When I am moved to visit, I will be sure to let you know.”
During the daylight hours, Ilsa remained in her chamber. Nothing outside the chamber required her attendance. No one asked for her. No one visited. The four women, whom she had difficulty thinking of as “her” women, spent the hours sewing garments for her that at least gave her alternatives to wear.
She arranged for the original underdress and brown gown to be returned to Elaine. The return elicited no response.
The princesses did not talk to her at supper, either, even though they sat at the same table as their brother. They were polite if Ilsa spoke to them directly yet made no attempt to engage her in conversation. Sallies Ilsa made always died after an exchange or two.
The princesses’ remoteness was of a pattern that matched everyone in the household. Everyone was polite. Everyone was pleasant and attentive when Ilsa spoke to them. Once the conversation was done, they disengaged and moved on as if their day had never been interrupted. It was puzzling and isolating.
On the tenth day, Ilsa woke to find her courses had returned, forcing her to ask the ladies for rags and supplies to deal with them.
After, the four women sat about the chamber, sewing, their conversation absent. It was as if they were stirring themselves to speak in between heavy thoughts in order to maintain a semblance of normality.
At supper just as little conversation took place. Arawn was withdrawn and drank heavily and Ilsa caught his gaze upon her, dark and narrow.
Her heart sank. The entire household knew of her state! They knew she was not with child this month. Were they blaming her for the lack?
She returned to her chamber with the women. They did not undress her as usual, but left her in her shift and turned out the lamp usually left burning for Arawn to find his way across the room. Ilsa shivered beneath the blankets, feeling the weight of disapproval press down upon her.
The next day, the quietness of the household was unbearable. Ilsa sent the women back to their quarters well before supper. She did not bathe and did not attend supper or ask for food to be sent. Instead, she extinguished the lamp and climbed into the bed. The days already grew darker. She watched the last of the sunlight climb up the wall as the sun dipped down below the window, wondering what she could do to make amends.
So wondering, she slept, more exhausted than a woman who had not moved out of her bedchamber deserved to be.
Ilsa woke to the sound of larks and the cold fresh scent of dawn. Through the lattice in the windows she could see orange and red sky.
It had been too long since she walked among the trees as the sun rose. Abruptly, she ached for that freedom. She threw the covers aside and opened the cupboard where her growing wardrobe was stored. At the bottom, in the corner, were her hunting clothes.
She snatched them up and dressed, her heart thrumming. It felt good to be moving, to have something to do, even if it was merely walking through trees. Her bow was propped against the cupboard, unstrung and unnoticed by everyone, for the bag of arrows covered it and the bag looked innocent, too.
She braided her hair and pushed it down her tunic, donned the soft cap and held the bow and arrows under her clo
ak. She nearly skipped down the corridor. It would be impossible to lose her way in the town, for the road was arrow-straight from the king’s house to the town gates. From there, she could cross the little river, the Scorff, and be among the trees growing up against the north bank of the river.
It did not take as long as she thought it should to reach the river. The journey to Lorient from the ferry had seemed longer. Energy raced through her. A little more of it and she would fly to the trees, she suspected.
The ferryman paid her no heed at all, except to nod when she requested passage. “You’re the first abroad this morning, lad. No one will come for an age yet. Hop in,” he said, his tone friendly. “You’re off to hunt?” he added as he poled the barge out into the water.
“If I see something,” Ilsa told him. “I wanted to see the sun rise and smell the crispness in the air. It smells as though snow may be coming.”
“Not for weeks yet, if we get snow at all this year,” he replied. “This here is just winter clearing its throat.”
She hid her disappointment. There had not been snow for three winters, of course.
It will be your fault if there is no snow this winter.
She pushed the thought away and turned her face up to the morning sun. It was warm against her skin.
The barge grounded on the shingles and she hurried up the road toward the trees she could see above. Then she was among them, their shadows over her. Astringent pine, the rot of leaf litter and animal droppings rose around her.
Somewhere north of her, a hawk shrieked as it dove upon prey.
Ilsa turned to place the direction, alerted. It had been a long time since she had eaten a hawk. Her mouth watered at the memory of the tender pale flesh, unadorned by any herbs or dressing except for butter and a little salt.
She strung her bow and loosened an arrow in the bag, so she could withdraw it without hinderance. Then she selected her direction and silently moved through the trees, listening hard.
The hawk had missed its target the first time she heard it, for it moved ahead of her. Once she caught sight of it above the trees, gliding as it hunted for another target. It was too far away from her to try with the bow although her direction was good. She moved deeper into the trees, intent on gaining on the bird.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 24