“High tide, low tide. They come at once, and the Lady got us across one river because of them,” Colwyn said thoughtfully.
“When it is this high,” Elaine continued, “it spills into the Scorff and spoils the fresh water there. We must look to the wells for water until the river runs fresh once more.”
Arawn scowled. He said nothing yet Ilsa guessed what he was thinking. The wells were already too low. This would further reduce their water.
On the other side of the swift-moving river, Ilsa saw swallows swooping and diving upon something on the banks beyond the other dock. She watched their movements as the pontoon drifted closer to the dock. They appeared to be attacking something which shone and glittered in the late afternoon sun.
“Is that a soldier’s shield?” Ilsa asked of no one in particular. “Lying discarded there on the bank?”
Elaine lifted her hand to shade her eyes and peer at the other bank. “It is a helmet, I think. How extraordinary! Who would leave a helmet behind?”
Ilsa watched the birds’ movements for a while longer. As they drew closer, she could see better what it was they were doing. They were diving right into the helmet itself, which was lying on one side.
It was unusual for birds to fly into a tight space in that way, unless it was a well-guarded and secure nest.
As the pontoon grounded against the dock and the men secured the ropes, Ilsa watched one tiny swallow land on the lip of the helmet—the protective flap which would lie over a warrior’s ear. It hopped into the interior cave of the helmet and pecked at the walls.
No…it was drinking!
As the horses thundered onto the banks, the swallows flittered away, abandoning the helmet. Ilsa didn’t mount Mercury at once. Instead, she pulled at his reins and walked over to the helmet. Her boots squelched across the ground. She lifted them up, peering at the damp earth.
“The river burst its banks, then,” Elaine said, looking down at Ilsa from her stallion. “Only yesterday, if the ground is still wet with seawater.”
Ilsa bent and picked up the helmet. Water sloshed from it, spilling seaweed. The dry scent of salt and the stench of the weed scratched at the back of her throat. “The birds were drinking from this, yet it is seawater,” she said.
Elaine shrugged. “High tides throw strange things upon the beaches. Maybe a soldier died at sea?” She kicked her stallion into motion.
“Birds can’t drink salt water,” Ilsa called after her.
“Apparently, they can!” Elaine called back.
Ilsa kept the helmet. She mounted her horse, puzzled, and fell in with the company. One more smaller river crossing and they would be home.
When had she begun to think of Lorient as home?
Chapter Sixteen
The mystery of the water in the helmet continued to vex Ilsa for days after they returned.
She had promised Arawn she would not wander from the house without a large, secure company about her. Ilsa instead asked Stilicho to send for a large bucket of seawater.
Ilsa put a cupful of the water in the helmet and laid it in the open for the birds to drink from. Then she took up a post on the corner of the verandah to observe. For days, nothing happened. Ilsa was forced to abandon her post to tend to other duties.
Reluctantly she put aside the traveling clothes she had found so comfortable and easy to wear. Instead, she donned the Roman style overdresses that scratched and tangled around her feet. She remembered how the long hems had tripped her and the folds had snagged and held her back when she had been trying to cross the room to help Elaine, at the wedding feast.
The wide necks were not warm, either, unless she wrapped a mantle about her shoulders, which further limited her movements.
For a woman who sewed and spun, perhaps the limited movements were not as frustrating as Ilsa found them to be. She sat with her four companions and explained what she wanted instead, while spreading the extraordinarily soft golden brown underdress Elaine had given her across the table, to demonstrate.
“This is close fitting. If it did not spread about so much at the feet and was cut so it did not drag along the ground as I walked, then it would not get in the way.”
Rigantona frowned. “We can adjust the undertunic for you, if you wish.”
“I do,” Ilsa told her. “I also want you to make my overdresses the same way. Tight at the sleeves and hips and stopping right at the ground and not a finger width beyond.”
All four women opened their mouths and raised their brows. Ilsa waited them out.
“A lady, a Roman lady, must…must…” Eseld spluttered.
Ilsa raised her brow. “Did Uther not suggest to Ambrosius that he should embrace the Briton in him and discard the Roman? I am merely following the future High King of Britain’s lead. Roman women can afford to wear gowns which slide about and need constant adjusting and must be carried about in front of them so they do not trip. They can wear veils and mantles which bind their arms, so they can do nothing more taxing than push their hair out of their eyes. We are women of Britain. We can travel on horseback and not slow down men. We have proved we can be more than decorative, have we not?”
“You will not wear a veil?” Rigantona said, touching the fine gauze which covered her own hair.
Merryn smiled. “Nor a mantle, I am guessing.”
“Not if I can avoid it. The overdress, if you make it as I wish, will be warm enough on its own. Only in the coldest of winter will I need a cloak, unless I go outside.”
“Extraordinary,” Eseld murmured, sounding distressed. “Traveling as we did is one thing. It was necessary. This, though…”
Ilsa raised her brow.
“You are a queen!” Eseld finished, with a defiant note in her voice.
“One who wishes to serve her people. I cannot work when I cannot walk without falling over my own garments.” Ilsa met Eseld’s faded brown eyes. “Your queen asks you to do this.”
Eseld blinked.
“Serves you right, Eseld,” Merryn said cheerfully. She looked at Rigantona. “That heavy wool, the one which doesn’t drape well…?”
“The mucky green one?” Rigantona asked. “There’s yards and yards of it. No one will touch it.”
“If we cut it the way this undershift is cut, turned diagonally to the edges, it will stretch as this does, will it not?” Merryn said, pulling at the linen undershift to demonstrate. “Then the sleeves can be cut tightly and still fit over her hands when she pulls it on.”
Rigantona got to her feet. “I’ll fetch it.”
The gown was made over the next two days, with tests and fittings and adjustments, until it matched what Ilsa wanted. She spun experimentally and saw the hem flare at the movement. When she grew still, the hem dropped about her toes. The dress hugged her wrists, so no cold air crept beneath. She touched the high neck, which stopped at the base of her throat. The golden undershift beneath protected her skin from the wool.
The green was not as mucky as Rigantona had made it sound. It was a muted color, one which was often found in nature at this time of year, which pleased Ilsa.
“In summer, your gowns could have lower necks and shorter sleeves,” Merryn suggested.
“And slits in the skirt like our riding clothes, to let the air in,” Eseld added. She had rid herself of her doubts about propriety as the work had continued. Now she was as full of ideas as Rigantona was about future adaptations of the design.
That night in the triclinium, Elaine circled Ilsa three times, taking in the details of her gown and tugging at it here and there, inspecting it. “Oh, I do like it!” she exclaimed. “Only, it isn’t…well, elegant.”
“It isn’t supposed to be,” Ilsa said. “It is a lady’s gown suitable for working in.”
“It can be elegant,” Elaine said, with a decisive tone.
Three days later, Elaine appeared at supper in her own version of Ilsa’s workmanlike gown and it was elegant. The fine, cream-colored wool trailed behind Elaine yet did not drag i
n the front. She wore a heavy gold chain about her middle, which sat on her hips and pulled at the front where the heaviest medallion shaped link hung. The edges of the sleeves were worked in gold, too. Over the top of the gown, Elaine wore a necklace which glinted with gold and copper and white.
She also wore a cloak as fine as the gown itself and of the same color. Instead of furling it about her shoulders to keep it out of the way, she merely pushed it over the back of her shoulders, so it trailed down behind her as the gown did.
Arawn rubbed his jaw, examining his sister. “I thought the point of such odd garments was practicality,” he muttered. “I cannot see any practical use in your appearance, Elaine.”
“Thank you,” Elaine said sweetly and settled on the divan to eat. She did not lie on one side as was the custom but sat up, as they had sat at Ambrosius’ table and at Bors’.
The next morning, Ilsa asked the women to make her another two of the warm gowns, in other shades of green. This time they turned to the work without a murmur of protest.
That afternoon, which was oddly warm and still for the time of year, Stilicho pushed into the room breathlessly. “The birds are drinking from the helmet,” he gasped.
The shortness of the gown allowed Ilsa to tuck it under her as she bent to examine the helmet without disturbing it.
The seawater pooled in the side of the helmet just as she had left it, although there was less of it than Ilsa remembered. She examined the helmet, frowning, remembering the way the swallows had hopped inside and pecked at the side of the metal. They had ignored the richer pool of water at their feet. Instead, they attacked the sides…
Ilsa reached and slid her finger over the inside of the helmet. It came away moist.
Stilicho frowned, standing over her. “Someone must have shaken the helmet and rolled the seawater about.”
Ilsa sniffed her finger, then licked it. “Just water,” she whispered. She looked up at Stilicho, shading her hand against the sun. “How does seawater turn into normal water?”
“One needs an enchanter for that,” Stilicho said dryly. “Unfortunately, there are no magicians to be had in all of Brocéliande, or I am sure the king would have demanded they make rain before now.”
Ilsa rolled her eyes, then turned back to look at the helmet, puzzling it out.
The sun was warm on her shoulders and pleasant. Ilsa turned to look up at the flat disk in the sky. It was dazzling even at this time of year.
A memory stirred. She caught her breath and gripped Stilicho’s arm. “Oh! Oh, Stilicho! I know how to make water! I need to speak to the cook. I need her bronze funnel. We will need a cooking pot and a fire to go under it and lots of seawater. Barrels of it, Stilicho!”
He looked down at her hand, then at her. “Barrels of seawater? You’re a magician now?”
“No, no, I’m just a woman,” she said quickly, “although I know why the helmet made water!”
It took three days of trials before Ilsa found a method which would work. It was a variation of something she had seen as a small child that she had nearly forgotten. The mysterious concoction of jars and pipes and fire the village men had put together had made a liquor from oats they had taken from a good harvest. The enormous glass jar they had acquired from some distant place had been the most fascinating part of the process for Ilsa. She had never seen glass before that day.
Now she remembered watching the brown liquid form as droplets inside the glass, then slide down to merge with the liquor gathering at the bottom.
On the evening of the third day, Ilsa went back to her chamber after supper, to wait for Arawn. The usual cups and a flask sat upon the low table.
Arawn strode into the room as he always did, as if he was in a great hurry. Ilsa knew he moved as quickly as he did because he felt enormous pressure to do everything possible to help his people, even if it required more effort than a mere man could squeeze into a single day. If he did not examine every possibility and follow every opportunity, then he felt he had failed them.
Arawn spotted the flask and the cups. “Yes, perhaps a small cup,” he said, with a smile just as small.
As always, when he agreed to take a drink with her, it felt as though Arawn was humoring her. Yet their conversations over the small cup of wine often lingered for much longer than the wine lasted.
Ilsa bent and picked up the flask and a cup and poured the liquid. She passed the cup to Arawn. “My lord.” She waited.
Arawn took a sip…and looked down at the cup, frowning. He swallowed. “Why…that is water!”
“Pure water,” Ilsa said happily. She put the flask down. “My lord, I made it!”
“Made it? What nonsense is this, Ilsa?” His smile was the same humoring one as before.
Ilsa moved around the table. “I will show you. Will you come with me?”
“To where?”
“The kitchen, my lord.”
“Is this something to do with that silly helmet which washed up on the banks?”
“Yes.”
Arawn hesitated.
“Please, my lord,” she added.
Arawn sighed. “Very well.” He moved out of the chamber, bringing the two guards scrambling to attention. Ilsa followed him as he moved with his usual great pace through the house to the kitchen.
The kitchen hands were just finishing their scouring of the pans before going to bed for the night. The apparatus Isla had been adjusting for three days stood on the sturdy table in the corner, out of the way of the cooks. “It is only a small device,” she told Arawn as she walked up to it. “A larger one could easily be made, especially if it was outside.” She touched the copper funnel. “I thought the funnel needed to be heated like the helmet but I was wrong. It is the water which must be heated, and the funnel must stay cold. That is why it would work outside.”
Arawn moved about the table, examining the thing from all three sides.
A metal tray with high sides held wood chips, twigs and small branches which, when burnt, heated the underside of a flat-bottomed iron kettle. The kettle sat on a trivet over the flames.
“The seawater goes in the kettle,” Ilsa explained.
“Seawater?” Arawn said, startled.
She nodded. “It is heated until it boils. This—” She touched the inverted copper funnel which hung over the kettle. The end of the funnel was sealed off and bent over so nothing, not even air, could get through. “This makes the water,” Ilsa said. “It is what the helmet was doing.”
“Making water,” Arawn said flatly, studying the thing. His tone was not one of disbelief, but of deep interest.
“Yes,” Ilsa said, encouraged. “It was a bright day. The sun beat down on the helmet all day, heating the seawater inside it, so it…” She paused. “Have you ever seen the air shimmer over a puddle after a summer rainstorm, my lord?”
“Many times,” he replied. Then he added dryly, “Not in the last three years, though.”
“You know what I mean when I say the sun draws the puddle up into the air?”
He nodded.
“And when you walk outside in a mist or a fog, have you noticed how rain drops gather on your clothes even though it isn’t raining?”
He scowled. “This is what you are doing? Drawing the water up into the air, then making it come out again?”
“On the inside of the funnel,” Ilsa said, nodding. “Although if the funnel gets too warm, it stops working. I think a clay funnel would work better, if there is such a thing—one with glazing, to let the drops slide down to the edge.” She drew her finger down the sloping side of the funnel, to the edge. “When the drops reach here, they drop to this second tray…” She touched the large, shallow tray which sat beneath the tray holding the firewood. “The funnel is wider than the fire box, so the water falls into the bigger tray beneath, then runs out through this hole and into a jar beneath.”
“Using seawater,” Arawn murmured, looking at it once more. “This is what studying the birds drinking in the helmet told
you?”
Ilsa bit her lip. She could not fathom what his tone meant. Was he angry? Intrigued? She glanced at the kitchen helps, who monitored them with more interest than they gave the plates they were cleaning.
“Back to the chamber,” Arawn said softly. “We can talk there.”
Ilsa followed him back to the bed chamber and shut the door, her heart skittering and lurching.
Arawn picked up the mug she had poured for him and sampled the water once more. He held up the mug, staring at it. “Completely tasteless and quite pure,” he said. “It is extraordinary.” He put the cup down. “Tomorrow, I want you to make more water and show me how it works.”
Ilsa nodded. “I would like to do that.”
“I have no doubt it will work,” Arawn said, “although I must see it for myself. Then, we will make a bigger device, which can make more water and see how that goes and if it works just as well…” He pondered. “It won’t save us, but it will provide water for those in direst need.” He spoke softly, staring at the mug.
Ilsa twined her hands together. “Are you angry, my lord?” she asked, the question spilling from her, driven by her worry.
“Why would you think I am angry?” Arawn asked her, lifting his head to look at her.
“Because you are frowning and because you are speaking quietly, the way you do when you are angry. Because you do not seem pleased.” She spoke the list quickly.
“I am…” He drew in a breath and let it out. “I don’t know what I am. Anger is not what I am feeling, though. Do you have any idea how much this will help us, Ilsa?”
“Of course I do. As you say, it will not supply a whole kingdom with all the water it needs. Only, anyone can set up something like I have and make their own water if they are near the sea, or even the tidal rivers.”
Arawn moved around the table to stand in front of her, studying her. “You did say the animals and the trees could teach us everything we need to know. It appears you may have been right after all.”
Ilsa’s breath caught, for there was a light in his eyes. Warmth. Happiness.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 32