Ilsa focused upon his words. The Picts in the north. Were they Gwen’s people? They must be. Gwen spoke of her father, their king, no longer having a kingdom to call his own. If Vortigern had unleashed the Saxons upon them and now the Saxons lived north of Hadrian’s Wall, then the Picts must have been driven from those lands.
They would consider both the Saxons and Vortigern their enemy. Now the daughter of their king lived in Lesser Britain. She had been taught by the most powerful woman in Britain, here in the land where Ambrosius lived and prepared to take back his country.
“Would the Picts be allies to Ambrosius now?” Ilsa asked Arawn, keeping her voice soft.
He didn’t answer.
She listened to his slow, steady breath and smiled. He had fallen asleep.
Ilsa pulled the blanket up to cover him and burrowed under them herself and settled to sleep. It was the first night since arriving in Lorient she fell asleep immediately.
Arawn was still asleep when Ilsa woke to the cheery sound of blackbirds and robins in the vines outside the windows, and the soft morning call of a tawny owl, farther away.
She eased from the bed and crept about the room, selecting a gown to wear for the day and dressing swiftly, for it was cold in the room. She cracked the ice on the washing bowl and washed her face.
“Gods above…” Arawn murmured from the bed.
Ilsa turned. “You fell asleep.”
“I can never sleep when the ache arrives,” he muttered. He pushed aside the covers and rose in slow increments to a sitting position, pausing with each few inches.
He straightened and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. “Nothing…” he breathed.
“The headache is gone?”
“Completely.” He bent and reached for his boots and pushed his feet into them and fastened them, still wearing the puzzled frown. “How late is it?” he demanded.
“Shortly after dawn,” Ilsa replied.
“I must…Stilicho will be waiting…” He moved toward the door, still frowning.
“My lord…?”
Arawn paused. His brow lifted.
“The horses for the ladies, for the journey…”
“What of them?”
“Use whatever horses are to spare, my lord. Even if they are war stallions.”
His frown deepened. “For women?”
“I have something in mind, my lord. I will arrange it these next two days. You should meet the Lady’s demands. Arrange for horses for everyone. I will take care of the rest.”
Arawn’s gaze moved over her face and her gown. It was the new blue one which Gwen said matched the color of Ilsa’s eyes. It trailed at the back, in a way that had taken Ilsa a day to get used to.
“What are you planning?” he demanded.
“I want to surprise you. May I?”
Arawn considered. “I suppose there is no harm in it. No matter what, we must all ride horses as requested, even if your plans do not work. Very well.”
He opened the door just as Gwen reached for the handle. In her other hand she carried a tray holding breakfast oats and a steaming cup of wine. She gasped and stepped out of the way and sank into a curtsey. “My lord.”
Arawn nodded as he crossed the corridor to his own chambers.
Gwen stepped into the room and shut the door, looking at Ilsa speculatively. “He stayed the night?”
“He did.”
Gwen smiled. “Very good, my lady.”
“More than you know yet,” Ilsa said. She settled on the stool and picked up the bowl, suddenly starving, while Gwen collected the comb and came back to work on her hair. “We have two days of hard work ahead of us, Gwen.”
“Oh? Do tell!”
Ilsa outlined her plan.
Chapter Twelve
That evening after supper, Ilsa hurried back to her chamber and made final preparations for the part of her plan she had not shared with Gwen in the morning. She changed quickly, putting on the heavy robe with the fur trim, for warmth. She loosened her hair, so it hung freely. The tray was on the table as she requested.
She sat upon a stool, facing the door. It didn’t take long.
Arawn strode in as usual, his gaze turned inward as he chased his own thoughts. It was a common expression for him. He focused on her and stopped short. Then he turned and shut the door. “What’s this, then?”
Ilsa picked up the still-steaming jug. “Mulled wine, my lord. Will you join me for a cup and conversation before we…before we couple?”
Irritation flickered across his eyes. His gaze shifted to the door.
“Last night was so educational and relaxing, for me,” Ilsa said. “Just from the little you told me, much was revealed to me about the affairs of men. And I…” She ducked her head, as if she was embarrassed. “I have never slept as well as I did last night.” It would remind him of his own sleep.
Arawn relaxed. “I, too,” he admitted, his tone rough. “Very well. A small cupful will do no harm.” He sat on the stool opposite hers and took the cup she poured. “Thank you.”
She lifted her own toward him, then sipped. She had quickly learned to enjoy mulled wine, here in Lorient. In the village, wine was not as common as ale and women and children did not drink ale. The herbs Arawn’s kitchen staff used to heat and flavor the wine were rare, too.
Ilsa had discovered the kitchen staff kept a tiny garden plot at the back of the house. They used left over liquids and scraps from cooking to water and feed the herbs they grew. The herbs had thrived despite the lack of rain. Because of them, she was allowed this lovely indulgence.
Arawn sipped. “Mm… Very good. It has been a long time since I had this. My mother used to make me drink it as a boy, to make me sleep.”
“That was my thinking, too,” Ilsa admitted. “That it would help me relax and sleep better.”
Arawn did not ask why her sleep was disturbed. Perhaps he thought he knew. Or perhaps he didn’t care.
Ilsa said carefully, “How did your planning for the journey go, today? Did you find the horses you need?”
Arawn rubbed at his hair and stretched his shoulders. “Better than I thought it would,” he admitted. “If I am free to use war horses as needed, then it will not be as difficult to arrange as I feared.”
“If there are no carts, cannot the whole party move faster than usual?”
He nodded. “There is that, too.”
Ilsa thought of another question to ask him which drew him out, while they drank their small cup of wine each. Arawn lapsed into introspective silences, caught in his own thoughts, unused to airing them aloud. Each additional question coaxed him to speak again.
Finally, he drained the cup and put it on the table and stood. “This stool is most uncomfortable,” he remarked, glaring at it. He reached for his belt.
“Let me, my lord,” Ilsa said, getting to her feet. She moved around the little table to stand in front of him, her heart thudding. With awkward movements, for she had never done this service for a man before, she unwound the long end of the belt and unknotted it, then slid the buckle loose. The belt dropped away.
Arawn’s chest rose and fell more quickly than usual. He remained still, though, as she gripped the bottom of his robe and pulled it over his head. His leather trews, which he wore now the cooler weather had set in, mounded over the congestion at his thighs.
Ilsa’s heart beat quickly and not for any reason she could understand.
She removed the long-sleeved undershirt and stared at Arawn’s flesh. She couldn’t remember looking at his chest before, not like this. A deep pink scar ran along his left shoulder. She only realized she had reached out to touch it when she felt the ridge of tissue beneath her fingertip.
“Saxon seax,” Arawn said. “When I was fifteen.”
“Was it your first battle?” she asked.
“It was the first injury. I fought better, after.” His voice was low and rough.
Ilsa reached for the ties on his trews and tugged at them. The
leather thonging was tied too tightly. She tried again.
“Gods, enough,” Arawn groaned. He gripped her waist, lifted her and carried her backward until her legs connected with the edge of the bed. Arawn dropped her onto the covers, yanked her robe open and lifted her knee up against his hip. With a single tug, he opened his trews, shoved them apart and slid his length into her, with a growl of satisfaction.
Ilsa’s heart was beating far too quickly. Her body tingled. She had never felt such sensations before. Arawn had never taken her this way. She had not before seen his face as he worked his body against hers. The tiny furrow that built between his brows as his pleasure increased. The shift of his muscles beneath his flesh as he moved.
Her breath came more quickly, just as his did. Her body seemed to gather and focus upon where they were joined…
It felt as though she was bracing herself, only not quite like that. It was not at all unpleasant.
Arawn stiffened against her and his eyes closed. His jaw flexed. Ilsa watched the moment of pleasure take him, fascinated.
When he withdrew, his gaze met hers. It shifted again. He moved away and Ilsa caught her breath, for there were more scars on his back and arms she had not seen.
He bent and picked up his clothes and dressed.
Ilsa pulled the robe back over her and sat up, watching him move. She had never watched him in this way. There were many things about him she was seeing for the first time. The scars. The strength of his body and the shape. The color of his skin and the surprising smoothness.
There was a patch of hair, where his chest mounded and bunched when he moved his arms.
The shirt dropped over it, hiding it away.
Ilsa looked up. “Would you like more wine? There is at least one cup left in the jug.”
Arawn picked up the wool cloak he wore inside the house. “No. I have work to do.” He strode to the door and put his hand on it and paused. He looked back at her, his dark eyes not quite meeting hers. “Thank you, though, for the wine. It was a kind gesture.”
He left.
She listened to him stride across the tiles and into his own chambers, already calling for Stilicho and Ralf and for Colwyn, “…if the man isn’t already abed!”
The next day, Ilsa arranged for two of the chairs with arms and backs which stayed in the great hall be moved to her bedchamber. The two stools at the ends of the table she put on either side with the others. During the day, Ilsa used one of the chairs and Gwen the other, while the four older women used the stools as usual.
That night, which was the last night before a dawn start on the journey to Guannes, Arawn entered the bedchamber at his usual fast clip. He took in the chairs and the waiting jug of mulled wine and smiled. “You will need a higher table, my lady, if you intend to keep the chairs.” He sat and took the cup she poured for him. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes, my lord. We finished the arrangements just before supper.”
“I could hear women chattering all afternoon,” he said and drank.
“I apologize, my lord. I was not aware we were making such noise.”
He shook his head. “I could barely hear it above the bellows of the men out in the quadrangle, anyway. I must trust that your plan works, Ilsa. There were few quiet horses for the ladies to use.”
“Whatever you have arranged, it will do.”
Arawn considered her, drained the cup and got to his feet.
Ilsa rose to hers and went to him.
He put her on her back again that night, too.
Stilicho came to wake Arawn before dawn. Arawn had already roused. An early blackbird had settled on the roof just above his window and woken him. Instantly the worries and concerns about the coming journey had brought him to full awareness. Not that he had been sleeping soundly, anyway—not the deep, blank sleep of the previous night.
Stilicho’s lamp and the soft sounds he made as he laid out Arawn’s clothes roused Arawn to full wakefulness. He rose and dressed. “Everyone is assembled?” he asked, for Stilicho was already wearing stout traveling clothes.
“Yes, my lord. The women are waiting in the princesses’ day room until the last moment.”
Arawn raised his brow. “I see.” He slid under the heavy cloak Stilicho held out for him, so Stilicho could drop it onto his shoulders, then turned to where Ralf was sitting in the corner with his chin on his fists. “In another few years, I’ll take you with me, Ralf. I need you to watch the house while we’re gone. Understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Ralf muttered.
Arawn hid his smile. The lad would get to ride with the men soon enough and then he would wish himself back at the hearth once more.
He walked out to the quadrangle where the more senior of the men were sitting astride their ladened horses, their breath smoking in the pale first light. The rest of the three dozen strong force waited on the other side of the pond with the pack horses, for there was not enough room for them. The rest of the quadrangle was taken up with horses awaiting their riders, with grooms holding their bridles and trying to contain their restless prancing. It was too cold to keep the animals waiting this way.
Colwyn was holding Silvanus’ reins. Arawn took them from him with a nod of thanks and climbed into the saddle. “Stilicho, stir the women. The horses must move.”
“No need, my lord,” Stilicho said, climbing up into the saddle of the quiet gelding he preferred to use when he was forced aback a horse. He nodded toward the east wing.
The curtain was pulled back from behind the door. Arawn could see lamps blazing. In front of the light came the figures of the retinue of women who would accompany Evaine on her marriage journey. The light was behind them. Arawn could see no details, until they filed out one by one across the verandah, through the opening in the wall and out onto the quadrangle, where the morning light and the torches held by the riders illuminated them.
Ilsa was the first of them. She was leading them.
The officers surrounding Arawn muttered to themselves. Arawn couldn’t hear what they were saying for his attention was upon Ilsa.
The other women spread out behind Ilsa, each heading for a stallion. From the edge of Arawn’s vision he could see them although he couldn’t pull his attention away from Ilsa to look at them. All he could tell was that they were dressed similarly to Ilsa.
Ilsa wore green. Not only was the dark emerald green a good traveling color, but it played well against her hair and her skin. Beyond that, it was difficult to define what she was wearing. Arawn thought it might be a gown, for the fabric fell from her hips in long folds the way a gown did. However, it stopped just short of the ground, on all sides. As she walked, Arawn thought he could see her shoes—boots, he corrected himself, flashing from between an opening in the front of the gown.
The gown had long sleeves. They were not the wide ones women seemed to favor. This gown had tight sleeves which would not impede riding. Over the top of the gown, Ilsa wore a leather jerkin which fitted her body. The jerkin was tied tightly closed, which kept the gown contained and out of the way.
It also defined her waist and hips and breasts in a way no normal gown ever did.
Arawn couldn’t look away. He had seen her body without clothes many times, yet until this moment, he had not been aware it curved so…pleasantly.
She stepped up to the nose of the black stallion and patted it. “Hello, Mercury,” she murmured.
Arawn noticed she wore a belt over the jerkin. It rested on her hips and carried her hunting knife. Her bow was over her shoulder.
Yet this was not the deliberate manly attire she had been wearing in the forest the day he saw her. Ilsa looked every inch a woman, yet every aspect of her attire appeared to be practical for traveling.
Ilsa took off the bow and fastened it to a loop on Mercury’s back, beside the packs. Arawn saw the arrow bag hung there, too. She took the reins from the groom and murmured her thanks, then lifted herself up into the saddle just as a man did.
A
rawn caught his breath.
Her right foot swept over the rear of the stallion and she dropped into the saddle as light as a feather. The dress split at the waist and flowed with the movement of her legs. Arawn glimpsed leather leggings beneath the flurry of green. Then the dress dropped demurely over each knee, covering her legs.
As Ilsa swept a cloak over her shoulders and fastened it with a pin, then tucked her thick braid inside her cloak, Arawn forced himself to stir and look away. The other women were all doing the same as Ilsa. They all wore contained, adapted gowns which split at the front and back, with leggings beneath. They were all donning heavy riding gauntlets.
Colwyn clicked at his stallion, who walked forward two paces, which brought the horse alongside Arawn. “Every one of them has at least a knife within reach,” Colwyn said, his voice low. “My wife, included,” he said with a soft sight. “Even Elaine has a small bow strapped to her horse.” His tone was one of approval.
“Elaine liked archery as a child,” Arawn said distantly, as his mind marveled over the transformation of the women in the household. It was remarkable. They were still graceful and feminine, yet their accoutrements would ensure they did not slow down the party as carts and litters would have. This had been Ilsa’s plan.
A light horn sounded from the front gate of the town.
“The Lady approaches, my lord,” Colwyn said. “We should start.”
“Yes,” Arawn said, still feeling dazed. “Ilsa, are you ready?”
She picked up her reins and pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. “Ready, my lord.”
“Each woman is to ride with an officer,” Arawn told her. “You will ride with me. Assign the women now.”
Ilsa’s eyes widened. Then she nodded and turned in her saddle and called each woman’s name in turn, then pointed them toward an officer. The women coaxed their horses forward. The horses trotted obediently and lined up beside each officer.
Colwyn raised his voice and shouted the order to move out. Arawn turned Silvanus about and headed for the bridge over the pond. As he had instructed, Ilsa fell in just behind him, for there was not enough room on the footbridge for her to ride abreast. The other horses in the quadrangle clattered behind them. The bulk of the party fell in with them as they moved across the open space to the road down through the town to the main gates.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 28