As she drew closer, she pulled an arrow and nocked it and kept the bow in front of her, her fingers on the string, ready to pull and loose.
She stepped out into a clear section among the trees. A cart track wound about the trees.
Ilsa smiled. It was a wood-cutter’s track, the wagon wheels leaving a trace she recognized. She stood in the middle of the track, her hearing extended. If the hawk was soaring once more, he might pass over the space between the trees, giving her a clear shot. She raised the bow, the tip of the arrow tracing an invisible line in the sky between the trees. She waited.
To her left, she heard the hawk’s wings flap as it gained height, looking for hot air to give it lift so it could glide while watching for prey. In a heartbeat or two, it would appear.
She pulled back on the string and held her breath.
The hawk hove into view, high up. She drew to the full extent of her strength and let the arrow fly. At the same moment, horsemen cantered around the bend in the cutter’s track—a dozen of them, at least.
When they saw her, one pointed and cried out. Abruptly, the troop broke into a gallop, making the ground thunder beneath her feet.
Ilsa tried to follow the arrow and the hawk, only the need to get out of the way of galloping horses was pulling her focus. She sighed and stepped out of the track and up against the trunk of the nearest oak for protection. She waited for them to pass while bending around the trunk to spot the hawk. Even though she had not seen it strike, Ilsa knew in her heart she had hit the bird. Once the horsemen were past, she would have to trace back and find it.
Only, the horsemen didn’t pass. They slowed as they neared her, then stopped in front of her. They were armed soldiers.
Arawn pushed through them, his stallion snorting and pawing the air. Fury made his face work and his lips to thin. “What in the name of the gods do you think you are doing out here?”
Chapter Ten
Arawn ordered his men to divide and move farther along the track in both directions, far enough to be out of earshot while still guarding them. He climbed from his stallion’s back and tied the reins to the lowest branch on the oak Ilsa stood beside, his hands moving in sharp, hard motions.
Ilsa waited, puzzled by Arawn’s anger and a little afraid of it, yet more than half her attention was upon the hawk. Had it fallen? Would someone else find it? She wanted her arrow back, at least. In the back of her mind, she regretted the loss of the meal she had been anticipating.
“Can someone at least find the hawk I brought down?” she asked him.
Arawn swung to face her, his face working. “A hawk?” he repeated.
“I shot the hawk just as your men saw me. It will be that way—a quarter mile, no more.” She pointed.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction she had pointed. “Impossible,” he said.
“It will be there,” she said, keeping her voice steady, even though she wasn’t certain it would be, for she hadn’t seen her arrow strike home.
Arawn considered her for a moment. He let out a deep, gusty sigh and whistled. A soldier cantered down the track to where Arawn stood in the middle.
“Look for a hawk with an arrow through it. That way, a quarter mile,” Arawn said.
The guard looked over his shoulder as Arawn had done. “My lord?” he said, sounding both amused and disbelieving.
“Just look for it,” Arawn snapped.
“Yes, my lord.” He wheeled his horse about. Ilsa listened to it thud down the track, her heart matching the beats of the hooves.
Arawn was studying her, his thick black brows drawn together. “You cannot wander the land alone the way you are used to,” he said, his tone flat. “You are a queen, now.”
“A queen or a prisoner?” she said. “For they appear the same.”
His jaw rippled. He was very angry, Ilsa realized. Her belly tightened. His anger was out of proportion to the minor sin of leaving the town unescorted. “I know how to take care of myself,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I have done so for a long time.”
“No, you do not understand,” Arawn said, pressing the side of his fist into his other gauntleted hand. “It is not only wild boars and thieves who threaten you here. Do you know what would happen to you if a man…if anyone realized who you are? The ferryman? The men of the village you must have circled around to get here?”
Ilsa licked her lips. “There is a reason I dress this way,” she said. She still didn’t understand the exact reasons for his anger yet her wariness grew.
“Uther saw through your disguise,” Arawn shot back. “Any astute man with half an eye would! I will not have it, Ilsa, do you hear? I will not allow you to risk yourself this way! It is too important! You must live. You must thrive or…” His hands flexed and closed.
“Or you will be less one wife and have to start again?” she snapped.
“Yes!” he cried.
Coldness trickled through her. Her head hurt. “I see,” she said. “It is not a coincidence everyone in your household minimizes how much they speak with me.”
Arawn’s gaze cut away from her.
“They don’t want to know me. They don’t want to…be friends. Just in case,” she concluded bitterly.
Arawn turned his head away.
“And the guards who appeared at the end of the corridor to our bedchambers…are they there to guard access to the wing or to keep me in? Will you be punishing them for letting me slip from the house?”
He met her gaze, his brows together. “They did not expect…” he began, his gaze moving over her.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “Then I am a prisoner.”
“No! It is not meant like that,” Arawn said.
“I cannot exist in that chamber and do nothing else with my days,” Ilsa cried. “I will go mad for lack of work!”
“You are safer there!”
Frustration bit her. “If your curse truly exists, it will find me there, too.”
His gaze met hers once more. They stood, both breathing hard.
“You don’t believe the curse?” he asked. His anger was not altogether gone, although his surprise had taken the edge off it.
Ilsa sighed and unstrung her bow and pushed it into the arrow bag over her back. “I know nothing of magic and curses,” she told him, as she worked. “Everyone in my village, whenever they spoke about the lack of rain, would also speak of a time of no rain in every generation. Their grandfathers told them, or their fathers, of the last great dry years.”
“Your village doesn’t think there is a curse, either?” Arawn asked, sounding even more surprised.
She shook her head. “Not connected to the rain, at least,” she added. “Rain will come on its own, they said. You though…they do think you are cursed.”
“Because my wives die,” he finished.
“Yes.”
“You believe it, too? That I alone am cursed and this drought has nothing to do with it?”
Ilsa spread her hands. “I am a wood-cutters daughter, my lord. What would I know about such matters? They are the province of kings and princes and other high born people. What I do know is out here.” She waved toward the trees. “Everything out here teaches lessons if you know how to look for them.”
Arawn’s anger drained. She could see it leave his eyes. His jaw relaxed. “Why did you agree to marry me, if you don’t believe the curse?”
“Because I could be wrong,” she said. “My parents and my village suffer from the lack of rain…or at least, they did suffer, until now.” She tilted her head. “Stilicho told me you sent them help and water and food and they are now recovered. Thank you for that.”
Arawn cleared his throat and looked away.
“If I am wrong about the curse and did nothing when marrying you might break it, it would be my fault no rain falls,” Ilsa finished.
“You agreed to the marriage just in case?” Arawn asked.
Ilsa shrugged. “If I said no and there is no curse, I will have done
no harm. If I said no and there is a curse, I would bring more harm on innocent people.”
“By saying yes, you risk dying yourself,” Arawn said, his voice harsh. “If there is no curse, you may be safe enough. If there is…”
“I might still be safe, if I break it.” She threaded her hands together. “People are suffering. Surely it is worth trying anything which might work? Even this.”
His gaze met hers. “Yes,” he breathed. “That is exactly right. It is what I told myself, the day we met—that I would do anything, no matter how mad it might seem, if there was a chance it would work.”
He really had the most interesting eyes, Ilsa decided. She had not noticed before. They were quite black and the whites were clear. Thick, long lashes framed them. The lashes might have been too feminine, except they were offset by a strong chin and jaw. No one would ever accuse Arawn of being weak. On her way to break her fast in the mornings, she had seen Arawn wrestle larger men during daily training in the quadrangle and bring them to the ground easily.
“I was on my way to sprinkle water upon stones, to see if it would work,” he said.
Ilsa had the strangest sensation Arawn was not thinking about what he was saying. His thoughts were elsewhere.
She shifted on her feet. “I am ready to return to the house, now. That is why you are here, isn’t it? To take me back?”
“I came,” Arawn said, reaching for the horse’s reins, “to make sure you had not tripped and broken your neck or fallen foul of a robber or man with an observant eye.”
“You knew I had gone hunting?”
“Your bow was gone.” He walked around the horse and drew the reins over his head. His gaze met hers over the back of the horse. “I understand why you fret about being enclosed in the house. You are not used to the restrictions which come with such responsibility. If you mean what you said about being willing to try anything, then I ask that you give your attempt every chance to work.”
“By not risking my neck,” Ilsa said and shook her head. “I wish I had not told you. You will use it against me now, every time I wish to do something that doesn’t suit you.”
His brows came together. “I only ask that you restrict yourself for a while. A short while, until we know if we are right or wrong or neither. For the sake of my people, I ask you this.”
Ilsa sighed. “Very well.”
He jumped on the horse and held out his arm. “Get up.”
Ilsa reached for his hand.
“Where is your ring?” he asked.
She dropped her hand. “In my arrow bag. It falls off all the time, my lord. I didn’t want to risk losing it among the trees. And I thought people might know the ring, too.”
“They would,” Arawn said, relaxing. He held out his hand again and hoisted her up onto the horse behind him. She gripped his belt as she had the first time. He plucked her wrists away from the leather and drew her arms around him. “You do not smell in the least objectionable and there is not a spot of mud on you,” he said. “I would rather you be safe. Hold tightly.”
He had pulled her arms around him so firmly her chest pressed up against his back. He was warm and solid and his scent was familiar. When had she grown so accustomed to the way he smelled?
As the stallion trotted out into the cart track, she felt in no danger of falling backward if he leapt forward, the way she had before. Arawn was right about this. What else might he be right about?
Was the curse real?
As Arawn gathered the men around him once more and the unit galloped for the ferry and home, Ilsa struggled with the notion that even though she did not believe in the curse, it may actually exist. If it did, then it was the cause of the drought, not a great generational cycle of weather as the old men in the village insisted.
She had married Arawn because of the possibility that the curse existed. Therefore, to maximize the likelihood she might break the curse, she must act as if the curse was real. She should not risk herself. Not in any way.
Only…she didn’t know how she could withstand being contained inside the house—even a grand house like Arawn’s. It had been so good today to move freely among trees.
Yet, if the curse was real… And so her mind continued to twist, first one way, then the other, fighting itself. As they clattered across the little bridge over the pond and into the quadrangle of the house, she still could not absolutely agree with Arawn’s request that she restrict herself indefinitely. It was not in her nature.
Arawn handed her down, as grooms hurried out to help with the horses. He held onto to her hand and slid to the ground beside her. They were surrounded by restless horses and men, hidden from everyone.
His fingers tightened their grip on hers for a moment and his gaze met hers. “I know what it is I am asking of you,” he said quietly.
Ilsa swallowed.
His gaze held steady. “If you find you must be free, promise me you will not slip out as you did today. Come to me, instead. Explain your need. I can arrange a safe escort, men to watch over you.”
“Your men cannot move quietly, my lord. Any prey with a heartbeat would scatter before I could close in on them.”
“Would it not be enough to walk among the trees and pretend?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “You failed to catch anything this morning. Future hunts might also be unsuccessful, yes?”
“I suppose, yes,” she said. Walking among the trees this morning had been enough, until she had caught hint of the hawk’s movement.
“My lord!” One of Arawn’s men pushed through the horses. “I found it!” He held up Ilsa’s arrow. The hawk was hit squarely and cleanly through the breast and laid still in the man’s palm.
Arawn stared at the catch, his eyes widening. “Impossible!” he breathed and looked at Ilsa.
She ducked her head, trying to hide her smile.
Arawn threw his head back and laughed. “Take it to the kitchens, Baldash! Tell the cook to prepare it for my lady’s supper!”
“My lord Arawn!” Stilicho cried. He strode around the length of the verandah, heading for the nearest opening in the wall, where he moved out to meet Arawn at the edge of the quadrangle.
Arawn stopped and listened with his head down as Stilicho murmured. He turned and looked for Ilsa and waved her forward.
Ilsa hurried to his side. “My lord?”
Stilicho’s eyes widened as they took in her appearance. He regathered his focus and said, “We have noble guests, my lady. Nimue, Lady of the Lake, arrived with her retinue a short while ago. She awaits an audience.”
“Have a fire set in the hall, Stilicho, and wine and food prepared,” Arawn said. He glanced at Ilsa. “It is the usual custom,” he said, with a note in his voice which sounded apologetic.
Ilsa realized that such an order was something she should have given. The entertainment of royal and noble guests was her responsibility. She nodded. “Pull the furs from the floor in my bedchamber, Stilicho. Put them in the hall, beneath the chairs. It will add to the warmth and comfort.”
Arawn lifted his brows. “A fine idea,” he said. “Use mine, too.”
“I must change,” Ilsa replied and hurried for her room, shedding her bow and arrows, her cap and her cloak as she went.
The first guest. If she was to be the queen and break the curse, she must behave as one. Only, it was hard to rid herself of the joy of having breathed free air, even for a short while.
While the four women shrieked and fussed about the servants shifting their stools and the table to get at the furs beneath, Ilsa stood at the open cupboard and chose a gown from among the few sitting upon the shelves.
Merryn moved up behind her and peered over her shoulder. “A guest, my lady?” she asked.
“Nimue, Lady of the Lake,” Ilsa replied.
“Lord above, protect us,” Merryn muttered and crossed herself.
“If that is his role, he has not done well so far, has he?” Ilsa asked her and pulled out the emerald green gown. As Merryn’s mouth pa
rted in surprise, Ilsa shook out the dress. “Where is the golden underdress?” she asked.
Nimue, Lady of the Lake, was the latest in a long line of powerful, gifted women who had donned the mantle and the responsibility to care for the minds and bodies of the kingdom. The Lady’s powers extended beyond the edges of the King of Brocéliande’s lands, though. Her reputation for healing and other gifts, including prophecy, were known across Greater and Lesser Britain, Gaul and beyond.
Perhaps even Rome had heard of her, although no one sought her from that far away. Since the withdrawal of Roman troops from Britain forty years ago, news from Rome had grown scarce. What news did arrive was unhappy. Civil wars, assassinated emperors, dying citizens. Fires, disease. The little information the western borders of Rome did hear was enough to convince them they were on their own—Rome had too many troubles of its own to deal with. It would not have surprised anyone to hear Rome had collapsed, the buildings torn down, the earth salted over, and its people scattered.
Most Britons understood they must take care of their own affairs now, even though Britain was still technically a Roman province. They turned, instead, to the old gods, the old ways, and strengths and resources native to Britain. One of those resources was the Lady of the Lake.
Ilsa met her in the hall, where the furs were spread and chairs arranged for the meeting. The household appeared one by one, still tugging finery into place and brushing at their hair, to stand between the chairs and the fire, to receive the grand guest.
Stilicho did the introductions. Arawn, as the king to whom the Lady was subject, could not. “My lady Nimue, the king is pleased to present to you his queen, Ilsa.”
Ilsa inclined her head as she had seen Stilicho do.
“Queen Ilsa, this is Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, the king’s most loyal subject, and a servant of the people. I commend her to you,” Stilicho finished.
His tone was stiff and formal. Ilsa guessed he did not like Nimue. Of course, he could not show his dislike.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 25