Ilsa looked at Arawn, startled. He frowned. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
Nimue wasn’t looking at him yet seemed to sense his approval. She moved to the door, the hem of the white gown trailing behind her. Her glow had returned.
Ilsa had studied the glow during the meal, trying to determine if it was magic, or merely a trick of the light against the white clothing and her white skin and hair. She was still undecided.
She caught up with Nimue and walked beside her, feeling shorter than usual. Nimue remained silent until they moved out into the hall. The fire was extinguished and everyone gone to their rooms, or lingered in the triclinium, for Ilsa could still hear chatter from that direction.
They moved down the length of the hall to the verandah which led to the east wing where Nimue’s guest chamber waited. A nearly full moon lifted above the horizon before them, as they stepped down to the verandah level. Nimue paused with a hand on the half-wall, looking at the moon with a small smile.
A high, soft hoot sounded and a flutter of wings. Something white flashed high in the night sky.
It was an owl, soaring on the wing, gliding down to where Nimue lifted her hand toward it. The owl dropped its claws onto the wall and folded its wings and hooted softly at Nimue, its eyes large and unblinking.
Nimue stroked the bird’s head. “A hunter of the night,” she said, her smile growing. “I wanted to speak to you, Ilsa. I saw the women who are in service to you. They are kind enough although they are much older than you. You have not seen fit to find yourself companion ladies who suit you better?”
Ilsa strung her fingers together. She looked down at them.
“You may speak freely with me,” Nimue said.
“I have learned much from them,” Ilsa said. “They have served all the queens before me, and if I…If I am not…”
“If your fate is to be the same as every wife before you, why bother finding anyone else?” Nimue finished.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Yet you do not believe the curse exists.”
Ilsa wanted to be shocked Nimue knew this, too, although she had grown accustomed to the idea that the Lady knew everything in her heart and mind.
Nimue nodded, as if she had seen Ilsa’s resignation, too. “Have you considered that if you act as if the curse does not exist, you will not be playing into its hand, if it does exist?”
Ilsa puzzled it out. “You mean, if I act as though the curse is real, I will make it real?” She shuddered at the thought. “That is…disturbing.”
“Knowing the future is disturbing,” Nimue said. “Curses are merely different forms of prophecy. Prophecy is the tool of my life’s work. Think about what I have said.”
“I will.”
“And, if I may…there is a woman in my care—she is close to my age. Her skills and her inclinations make her unfit for training as an adept. She would, though, make a fine lady-in-waiting to a queen. She was born in a royal household and understands the workings and politics which can trip the unwary.”
Ilsa considered the idea. If she was to pretend the curse did not exist, she should find herself more suitable companions. “What is her name?”
“Gwen,” Nimue said.
Ilsa shuddered hard. The owl fluttered and resettled, with a soft squawk. Nimue stroked its head, soothing it, her gaze upon Ilsa’s face.
“What was that?” Ilsa breathed.
“You have been touched by time,” Nimue said. “A ghost of the future brushed past you and you felt it, that is all.” She straightened. “I will send Gwen to you as soon as I return tomorrow. Goodnight, Ilsa the Hunter. I will see you soon, for we will travel together to Guannes for the wedding.” Her smile was that of a young girl, full of delight and simple happiness. “We will have fun, you and I.”
Chapter Eleven
Gwen of the Lake suited Ilsa very well indeed. Her arrival was the stirring of a breeze through the house, when everyone would pause from their work and stretch, their senses turning to the outdoors.
Gwen’s appearance was similar to many Celtic women, for she was dark of hair and eyes and had fine pale skin. As Ilsa discovered, she came from a far more ancient and noble bloodline than any Celtic tribe could offer. She was a small woman, even shorter than Ilsa, which was a novelty. Ilsa had never met anyone shorter than her besides small children.
The first time Ilsa spotted the permanent markings on Gwen’s shoulders and arms, Gwen had turned her shoulder to glance at them herself. “Those?” she said, even though Ilsa had said nothing. “They’re traditional. The eldest daughter of the king receives them.”
“What king would that be?”
“You would not have heard of him,” Gwen replied. “He no longer controls any lands you recognize. Once, though, our people ruled the north.”
Ilsa asked no more questions of Gwen. To ask would betray her ignorance of what people were in the north…and what north would that be? North of Brittany was the sea. North of Britain was an unknown country which even the Romans had not dared to tame. Was it that north? If it was, then how had Gwen come to be with the Lady? If her father was a king of those people, surely he would want to use his daughter to seal an important alliance…
Instead, Ilsa said diffidently, “Nimue said you knew the ways of the court and politics.”
“The Roman style courts of the southern kings are the same as those of my people—men jostling for power while women control affairs behind them.” Gwen laughed. “Politics is power, and power works the same no matter where one goes. You look shocked.”
“I am. I was not aware than women control affairs at all. That is the province of kings, isn’t it?”
“And who controls the king?” Gwen replied. Then she laughed again. “I can see you have much to learn about the politics of the bedchamber, my lady.”
The other four women—Merryn, Eseld, Rigantona and Dilas—tried to pretend they were not listening, for Ilsa and Gwen were sitting on the edge of the bed only a few paces away. Then they tried not to look shocked at Gwen’s observation.
Gwen’s conversation was often ribald and always stimulating. It always left Ilsa plenty to think about, especially in the long hours of the night when Arawn had completed his duties and left her to sleep.
There were other factors about Gwen which provoked heavy thought, including the gowns she wore.
Gwen did not wear the overdresses, long mantles and veils and heavy jewelry Evaine and Elaine favored and the rest of the household wore to follow suite. Her gowns were of a different cut and style, each of them becoming.
When Ilsa questioned her on the origins of the style, Gwen had spread the blue gown over her knee, with a reminiscent smile. “This is how British noble women dressed long before the Romans arrived. We never adopted the Roman customs. We wear them still.”
The gowns hugged Gwen’s figure, unlike the overdresses Ilsa already had. The shift Gwen wore beneath was not on display. It was for warmth and comfort. The sleeves of the gown were long and could be folded out of the way. “Although for hunting and fighting, we wear leather and armor, just as the men do,” Gwen explained
Ilsa recoiled. “You fight?”
Gwen smiled. “It is only the Romans who think a woman cannot fight, just because she is weaker and smaller. Even the Saxons have auxiliary flanking forces made up of their best women fighters, when they do not leave them at home to guard their farms and families. Surely you have heard of this?”
Ilsa shook her head.
“I hear you are good with a bow. You could fight,” Gwen suggested.
“The king would…would…he would not allow it.” Ilsa could imagine the flood of fury in Arawn’s face and the working of his jaw, if anyone dared suggested the queen fight among the ranks of his soldiers.
Ilsa asked Eseld to find cloth which would drape as Gwen’s gowns did. She arranged the making of several dresses, including one for Evaine’s wedding, which Arawn had arranged as swiftly as messengers could travel between the
two kingdoms.
Arawn had returned to the silent, detached king Ilsa had always known. She didn’t know how he felt about Nimue’s revelations and hints and her wild prophecy about the far future, for he did not speak about any of it. Nor did he tell her about the setting of the wedding for the autumn equinox. Stilicho had shared it in his usual morning reports.
The distance might have remained in place forever, if not for Gwen’s shocking, mind-stretching conversations about the power of a woman over a man and the activities of the bedchamber…and a headache.
There were few days left before the large traveling party would set out for Guannes. Preparations reached a frantic peak.
Travel was chancy for any well-ladened group. There had always been thieves and robbers lurking on lonely roads. The military might of Rome had suppressed most. With Rome gone and the Saxons raiding lands almost monthly, there were more homeless and hungry men willing to risk much to feed their families and themselves. There were also Saxons, cut off from their tribes and trying to reach home, far to the north, who were just as desperate for food and water.
As the rains lessened, the homeless learned to work in bands. Even large travel parties were not safe, if they appeared to be carrying food and water, or goods and trinkets which could be bartered for both. The brigands were also drawn to the tools of pillage—swords and knives, axes and spears and the armor that would protect them, along with the horses the armed men sat upon.
Arawn’s group would include women. They were taking Evaine to her wedding, along with her trousseau and the supplies needed to undergo the four-day journey. They could only travel as fast as the slowest cart and they would not be going by the most direct route. To compensate for the inherent vulnerability of the group, a large contingent of armed soldiers would travel with them, which required carrying even more supplies.
Arawn chose the route to use the still-good Roman road, the Via Strata, which ran through his lands to Vannes where Budic wintered, then on to Guannes, south of Morbihan. To reach the Roman road would take a whole day of traveling east through the forest of Brocéliande.
At least, that had been Arawn’s plan, until he received a message from Nimue, two days before they were ready to leave, which upset everything.
Ilsa only learned of the upset that night when Arawn came to her chamber after supper.
As the nights grew cooler, Ilsa wore a simple open robe while she waited for his arrival, which she could wrap closed to keep warm, then discard when he appeared.
That night, though, Arawn did not stride into the chamber as he normally did. He closed the door, his head bent, and latched it so the iron lever did not drop into place with the soft thud it usually gave.
Ilsa was already on her feet. She paused with her hands at the opening of her robe, watching him.
Arawn took slow steps. She could see his face if she bent a little, for he was still watching the floor. His eyes were squinting, nearly closed. He almost kicked the stool in front of him before veering off.
He halted, his hand out, as if he was dizzy or trying to stop…something. Then, with a groan, he sank onto the stool and gripped his knees. His knuckles were white.
“What is wrong? My lord?” Ilsa moved over to the stool. She reached out to touch his shoulder to gain his attention. She stopped her hand short, not sure if her touch would exacerbate whatever ailed him. Instead, she sank down so she could look up at him. “Arawn,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. Slowly. “A headache,” he whispered. “Sometimes, they come upon me this way.”
Ilsa had heard him shouting in the antechamber, earlier that day. He had been irritable at supper, too, and drank far more than usual. “Then you have had them before,” she surmised.
He hissed and his fingers squeezed. “Of all the times… I have too much to do! Nimue and her supercilious demands! Now I must adjust everything…” He winced and held still, breathing hard.
Ilsa did not understand what he was talking about. “What did Nimue do?” she asked.
“It is nothing,” he said, squeezing his temples with one hand, his eyes closed.
The same blank wall as usual.
Men don’t always understand what they need. Gwen’s voice. They don’t know how comforting a haven from the day’s worries can be until you show them.
Ilsa rose to her feet and tied the robe closed with the ties beneath her breasts, then reached for Arawn’s arm. It was iron hard beneath her fingers. Was his whole body clenched as tightly? No wonder his head ached!
“Come here,” she said. “Slowly, rise to your feet. I will guide you to the bed. You can lie down and close your eyes. Come.” She tugged.
“I should go back. There are rosters and lists…” He got to his feet.
“You can return later,” Ilsa told him. “Take a moment. Let this pass, then you will be stronger and fit to work again. Just close your eyes for a few minutes.” She guided him around the stools and over to the bed one slow step at a time as she spoke. When the back of her legs connected with the bed, she moved out of the way and pulled the covers aside.
“The bed is right before you,” she told him. “Reach out to find it.” She picked up his hand. “Here.” He let her guide his hand to the mattress. She pressed it against the sheet. He was already hunched over by the pain. He spread his fingers on the sheet then knelt on it. Then, with a hiss, he lowered himself onto the bed.
Ilsa slid a cushion beneath his head as it came down.
Arawn put his hand over his eyes. “The lamp!” he whispered. “It hurts…”
Ilsa hurried over to the low work table and blew out the flame on the lamp. It was the only light in the room and without it, the room fell into deep shadow, broken only by moonlight in the windows overhead.
Arawn sighed. His hand dropped back to the mattress.
Ilsa loosened the ties on his boots, then eased them from his feet. She dropped the covers over him.
“I must…” he murmured.
“In a moment,” she assured him. “Relax awhile, first. Tell me about Nimue. What did she do to vex you so?” She moved around the bed and onto it, careful not to jog the bed and disturb him. Because it was cool, she pulled the covers over her knees. “What has Nimue done?” she added, coaxing him.
He made a growling sound of frustration in the back of his throat, then winced and held still.
“She is your subject,” Ilsa said. “Can you not ignore her demands?” It was a guess, put together from the few words he had already spoken.
“Not if I want to avoid yet another curse on my land,” Arawn said with a sigh. “The relationship between the king and the Lady has always been…cooperative. She is too powerful to treat as any other subject. As long as the king and Lady get along, then all is well.”
He had told her. He had actually spoken the words and shared his thoughts.
Her heart racing, Ilsa said softly, “What are her demands, then?”
“They make no sense!” he hissed. “Everyone must travel by horseback, even the women. The goods, the food, the packs, must also go on hoof. No carts! No litters!”
“Did she explain why we must travel that way?” Ilsa asked.
“No!” He hissed again and closed his eyes. She could see a pulse beating in his throat and in his temples. Was that beat echoing in his head? Throbbing?
“Now I must find horses gentle enough for ladies when we have spent a generation raising war stallions,” he said. “In two days! It is impossible. Then there is the governor’s letter, which will not help bring joy to the wedding…”
“The governor?” Ilsa prompted.
For a long moment, Arawn did not answer. Ilsa thought that perhaps he would not, that his largesse and sharing had come to a quick halt. Then he sighed. “Two years ago, the British leaders—not Vortigern, but the Pelagians and leaders of the west, including all of us in Lesser Britain—signed a letter and sent it to Aetius, the Roman governor of Gaul, asking for military assistance. His reply arri
ved last month. I got word of it today. Aetius bids us to turn to our own defenses for he is too busy dealing with a Hun called Attila.”
“It took him two years to reply?” Ilsa asked, amazed.
“It is as well we looked to our own defenses in the meantime. It was a harsh summer, two years ago. You likely don’t remember it.”
“I remember the villagers muttering about summer storms,” she said. “I thought they meant weather. Perhaps they were alluding to the Saxons, for they spent the summer sharpening spears and swords and none of the children could wander beyond the borders of the village.”
“If Vortigern had not struck his deal with the Saxons, we would not have had such a summer,” Arawn murmured. He took a slow breath. Even in the dark, Ilsa could see the tight lines of his body had relaxed a little.
“What deal did Vortigern strike?” Ilsa asked, even though she thought she could remember her mother and father speaking bitterly about Vortigern’s betrayal of the Britons who supported him.
Arawn told her in slow, spaced sentences, how Vortigern had used Saxon mercenaries, called foederati, to defend the north against barbarian attacks. The summer before the letter had been sent to the governor, Vortigern had moved Cunedda and his sons, the leaders of the Saxons in the north, to northwest Wales to defend western Britain against the Irish. When he had tried to send the Saxons back north of the walls after repelling the Irish, the Saxons had refused. They liked the milder clime in the south and the rich, arable land.
Hengist, leader of all Saxons in Britain, invited his son, Octha, to sail to Britain with as many warriors as he could gather. Octha arrived with sixteen ships filled to the brim with warriors and their families keen to fight.
“Vortigern fought them to a standstill,” Arawn said, stifling a yawn. He no longer held his head. “It won a single summer of peace, then they came back twice as hard. Now Britain fights every single year to hold the lands we still call ours. Vortigern thought bringing Saxons into Britain to fight the Irish and the Picts in the north would cure Britain’s ills. Instead, his cure is a curse.” Arawn paused. “I wonder if Vortigern walks the room at night as I do?”
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 27