When no one else sought word with the king and Arawn and Stilicho were alone, Arawn told Stilicho of the new project and Stilicho’s role as tutor.
“You wish to be rid of me, master?” Stilicho asked, his voice strained.
Ilsa jerked to her feet, for she recognized the fear in his voice.
“Never, Stilicho,” Arawn said firmly. “If you do manage to teach me to read—and that is yet in question—then I will still need you to run my house and teach my children. There will be children, Stilicho. One day, there will be children.”
“Yes, my lord,” Stilicho said, doubt in his voice.
She sank back onto the bench, her heart thudding heavily. Did everyone in the house and the town…did everyone in the kingdom think Arawn was so thoroughly cursed it would never be broken?
Did they all secretly wait for Ilsa to die?
Over the next few days, a new routine established itself. In between the heavy load of work Arawn faced each day, even in the depths of winter, Stilicho would sit with them on either side of him at the desk, with a blank slate in front of each of them and the lamps turned up high to facilitate reading.
Stilicho would trace out letters with his stylus and they would repeat them, until they understood the alphabet. Then, he went through the sounds made by letter combinations.
While Arawn met with advisors and officers during the day, Ilsa would sit on the bench against the screen and practice her letters.
The days came and went, while winter deepened its hold. No snow fell, even though the air was crisp and cold enough for it, and everyone monitored the heavy gray clouds for flakes. Instead, the cold gripped the land until the ground was as hard as any metal and white with frost. No birds cooed outside the windows. Even the wind halted. The world grew still, as if it waited.
The winter solstice was nearly upon them and the afternoons were short and dim. Everyone hovered about braziers and firepits when they did not have work which pulled them away from the warming fires. They hunched inside their cloaks, wore extra tunics and wrapped rags about their hands so they could keep them warm even while they worked.
The evening suppers out in the great hall, with the air of the day against their skin, were moved to Arawn’s antechamber with the warm air from flames warming their faces, instead. While the remainder of the household ate in the triclinium, everyone was banished from the king’s quarters to allow Ilsa to emerge from the inner chamber to eat.
Increasingly, their suppers became a time to practice their reading and writing, as they drilled each other in letters and words and, eventually, sentences.
The Christians in the household were preparing for their own solstice festival the day everything changed again.
Arawn had given the Christians leave to attend the church that evening, when Colwyn petitioned on their behalf. After Colwyn had left, Stilicho said, “The cook has a haunch of mutton which could serve as a feast day offering. I can tell the cook to prepare it for them, with your permission.”
“Yes, yes,” Arawn said, his tone irritable.
“Or perhaps you feel it would be too much of a drain on our winter stores, my lord?” Stilicho said carefully. He was probing Arawn’s mood.
Ilsa put her slate down, her attention sharpening.
“They are entitled to celebrate their most holy day, Stilicho,” Arawn said, sounding even more frustrated. “Hand me the wine cup, will you?”
“My lord, are you quite well?” Stilicho asked, his voice rising.
Ilsa got to her feet, alarm skittering through her. Stilicho’s voice rarely moved from its calm, urbane cadence. Now he sounded concerned. She moved across the floor to where she could see through the archway into the antechamber.
Arawn lurched to his feet. “Damn it, the wine, man,” he muttered, reaching for the cup which stood in front of Stilicho. His hand didn’t reach it. Arawn paused, blinking, staring at the surface of the desk.
He swayed.
Ilsa screamed as Stilicho threw himself forward and caught Arawn as his knees buckled.
Stilicho hoisted Arawn up over his shoulder with a grunt of effort and carried him into the bed chamber. “The furs,” he said, gasping. “Pull them aside.”
Arawn hung limp over his shoulder.
Ilsa almost ran to the bed. She tore the furs aside and pushed pillows and cushions into place at the head, then skipped aside as Stilicho bent and dropped Arawn onto the bed.
Arawn’s arm fell off the side of the bed and his hand scraped against the floor. His face was damp with sweat and the thick curls of his hair plastered wetly to his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were closed.
Ilsa put her hand to her mouth. “What is wrong with him?”
Stilicho tore open Arawn’s cloak. The tunic beneath was dark with sweat. Stilicho used his eating knife to tear the tunic open, too. Then he looked up at her. “Get away from here,” he snapped. “Leave and don’t come back into this room until the physician has tended him. Go back to your chamber and wait there.”
Ilsa could feel her mouth drop open. Stilicho had never spoken to her with such a peremptory tone before.
“I’ll find someone to send for the physician,” she said.
“No!” Stilicho swung about to face her. His tanned face was tight, his brows together. “You cannot risk the babe. Go back to your chamber. I will send for the physician. Go!”
She put her hand to her rounded belly, a more powerful alarm bursting through her. She scurried from the room, snatched up the lamp on Arawn’s desk and flung the door open.
The guards snapped to attention outside the door.
“Find a physician,” she told them. “The king is ill.”
They didn’t question her. One glanced inside, then jerked his head at the other, his helmet glinting in the light of the lamp she held. The two of them hurried down the corridor toward the hall. By the time they reached the end of the corridor, they were running.
Ilsa pushed open the door to her chamber. The room seemed far smaller than she remembered despite there being no furniture but the bed. There was nowhere to put the lamp except to balance it on the top of the thick trunk which made a corner of the bed.
Her heart running heavily, fear turning her blood to a thick, hot soup, Ilsa stood and gripped her hands. Beyond the door, men called anxious questions. In front of the house was more shouting and the clop of hooves. They were sending for the physician.
Ilsa walked in a slow, looping circle from one end of the room to the other, to turn beside the bed, then head for the door once more. The door was not barred yet it might as well be, for she could no more step out and expose her child to whatever had struck down Arawn than she could fly.
She wrapped her heavy cloak about her firmly for it was cold in the room—far colder than Arawn’s chambers. As she walked, she listened to the sounds beyond the room. There were many hurrying and running feet and lots of voices talking over the top of one another, fear making their tones strident.
When a voice became clear enough, Ilsa stopped and listened, her heart straining, hoping for news.
Time passed. The air grew colder, marking the passage of the night. The moon rose, framed in the high window, then departed. Still people hurried to and from the antechamber, although not as many, now. their voices had grown calmer and softer.
Ilsa could not sit. Standing was intolerable. She walked, sometimes fast as her fear rose, sometimes slowly, as she gathered more sensible thoughts together.
The absolute stillness of morning breathed through the window when Stilicho pushed open the door and trod slowly into the room, his head down.
Ilsa came to a halt, her hand on the other massive bedpost for support, her heart lodging in her throat and making it hurt. Her chest hurt, too. Her eyes ached. “He lives?” she breathed.
Stilicho lifted his chin. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face strained. “For now,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Ilsa tightened her hold on the bedpost as the air in the room bea
t at her in successive waves of soundless booming. “For now,” she whispered.
Stilicho’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer to her. “My lady, look at me.”
Ilsa tried to lift her chin. Her head was so heavy. She clutched at the post with her other hand. “Oh, Stilicho…” she breathed, as black nothingness rose around her.
Chapter Twenty
The daylight against her closed lids was far too bright. Ilsa squeezed them shut and moaned.
“She wakes!” someone whispered.
Hands on her face. A damp cloth against her forehead, cool and smelling faintly of pine.
“My lady, can you hear me?”
Stilicho.
Fingertips patting her cheek. “My lady?”
Stop that.
“My lady?”
Everything in her body ached. Even her fingernails throbbed.
“My lady?”
“Arawn…” she breathed and this time she heard the word in her ears and not just in her mind.
“She asks for him!” A woman’s voice, filled with triumph and also despair.
“Move out of the way, all of you.” Another woman’s voice, this one filled with authority. “Give me the cup, there. Yes.” A hand thrust under Ilsa’s head. Her head was lifted and the metal of a cup pressed against her lips. “Drink, Ilsa,” the voice urged. “It will help.”
She opened her lips and thick liquid drizzled between them. The taste made her moan. The liquid continued to trickle, forcing her to swallow.
Her head was placed back upon the soft thing beneath it. Still she could not open her eyes. The lids were heavy, stuck together as if ice welded them closed.
“She will sleep now,” the strong voice said, from far away.
“I must speak to her, first!” Stilicho’s voice was strident.
“There will be time for that later.” The voice was even farther away, now.
Stilicho spoke, his voice sharp. Ilsa could no longer distinguish the individual words. Only the anger.
Stilicho, angry with another and showing it!
Why must he speak with her?
The light was less dazzling the second time she woke. Ilsa found she could open her eyes, too, although it took enormous effort.
She sighed when she saw the screen beside the bed.
Arawn’s bed. They had brought her back here.
Something moved to her right. She shifted her gaze with effort.
Arawn himself sat there, in a chair which once was in her chamber. He sprawled, his legs thrust out, the boots digging into the rug. A blanket wrapped around him which she recognized from the queen’s bed. Had he slept in the chair, then?
His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his head propped in his hand, as if he was weary beyond belief. His gaze turned inward.
“Arawn,” she breathed.
He sat up with a lurch, untangled the blanket with quick movements, his gaze moving over her face. “You’re awake…” He dropped the blanket on the chair and moved to the side of the bed and bent over it to study her. “How do you feel?”
“The babe…” she whispered, for her throat was parched.
Arawn’s gaze had been steady. At her murmured words, it shifted away.
Fright speared her. “Arawn?”
“The babe was lost,” he breathed.
“No…” Ilsa gripped the sheet beneath her in a desperate fist, as despair tore through her. Her eyes ached, unshed tears pressing them. Her agony was too deep for tears. “This is my fault,” she whispered, each word shredding her throat. “I didn’t believe the curse. I was arrogant. Now…all is lost.”
“You were not lost,” Arawn said, his voice as hoarse as hers. “The Lady could not save the child. You, she saved. You…me…so many others…” He swallowed.
“There were others?” Her horror grew.
Arawn straightened. “Gwen was the first. Now, many in the house and village are sick with the same illness.” Arawn’s fist curled. “Another plague,” he breathed. “One which does not bring the pox yet takes people just the same.”
Ilsa’s tears fell, then. “I have failed you,” she whispered.
Arawn’s gaze came back to her face, startled. He shook his head. “No, you have not. You live, Ilsa. Do you not see it?”
She stared at him. “See what?” she breathed.
Arawn’s other hand tightened into a whitened fist. “I am the cause of all of this,” he said woodenly.
Horror curled through her, making her heart thrum. “No,” she said weakly.
Arawn sank onto the edge of the bed, his strength leaving him. As she watched, his eyes glittered and filled. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. “I did this.” He choked. “Me. I am the only one who can bear any blame. I sought to keep harm away from you. I let no one near you, so it can only have been me who made you ill enough to lose the child.” He gripped his head with one big hand, his fingers digging into his temples, as if it ached. “I am truly cursed. I cannot keep you safe at all.” His shoulders shook. “The gods will take and take and take, no matter what I do.”
Even though her hand was heavier than iron, she lifted it and strained to reach his, where it rested on the covers by his thigh. At the first touch of her fingers, his hand curled, as if he would tear his hand away from her touch. She reached again and slid the tips of her fingers over his smallest finger, the only one she could reach. Ilsa gripped as tightly as she could and tugged. It was a pathetic, weak movement.
His hand shifted closer.
Ilsa took a firmer grip on it and held it against her chest.
Arawn’s gaze swung back to her. He no longer hid his face, even though his eyes were damp. His gaze skittered, barely able to meet hers.
“I was spared for a reason,” Ilsa said. “Clearly, we must try again.”
His grip tightened. “Why should we try?” he muttered. “There is no hope.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I only know that when a robin loses an egg, or even a whole nest of eggs, she does not give up. She will build another nest next year and lay more eggs. I do not think she cares about hope, or even knows what it is. Even if she loses the nest again, she may succeed in the third year. If she gave up after the first or second year, then she would never reach the third year when she succeeds.”
“Your damn animals…” Arawn muttered, only there was a new light in his eyes. It wasn’t hope. She knew that. Perhaps it was simply determination.
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed them against her fingers. “Hope or no, we try again,” he said. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her hand again. “Thank you,” he said softly. He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand and got to his feet. He moved now with the snap and speed of old. “When I woke from my fever I was starving beyond measure.”
Ilsa’s belly gurgled loudly as she thought of food.
Arawn’s smile was strained yet it was there. “I’ll send someone to help you.” He walked beyond the screen, striding and calling for Stilicho. Voices murmured beyond the screen, telling Ilsa there were far more people in Arawn’s antechamber. Were they waiting for word about her? They would already know the baby was lost.
More footsteps and the sound of the big outer door opening.
Gwen moved around the screen, carrying a basin and cloths.
“Gwen!” Ilsa breathed, delighted. She struggled to sit up.
“You’re very weak,” Gwen told her, sitting the basin on the chair Arawn had vacated. “You will be for a few days, as I was.” She dropped a cloth into the basin and squeezed the water from it.
“Arawn seemed fine.”
Gwen shook her head. “Whatever the sickness is, he was only lightly touched by it. You have been very ill. The baby…” She pressed her lips together. “The loss of the child made it worse for you. So you must take your time and rebuild your strength.” Gwen wiped her face. The water emitted the same stringent pine smell Ilsa remembered from before.
“He seemed so ill, when he collapsed,” Ilsa said wonderingly.
“Oh, he was weak as a kitten when he woke, the same as all of us, yet he was driven to rise from his bed, no matter what.” Gwen’s gaze met Ilsa’s. “When he learned about the baby and you, he left.”
“Left?”
Gwen nodded. “He got on Silvanus and rode into the forest. Three days he was there. When you called for him, the Lady sent Colwyn to find him. She knew where he was and she was right. Colwyn brought Arawn back.” Gwen turned her head. “The king sat in that chair and watched you and did not move away from this room until just now.”
Ilsa’s heart thudded.
There is no hope.
Arawn had sat in the forest for three days, considering the bleak future and his failure to help his people. He still held no hope, so why had he returned? It could not simply be because she had spoken his name.
Could it?
When Arawn returned from the bath house, his skin still tingling from the heat and the oil and his cheeks freshly shaved, the women were helping Ilsa walk to her chair. The chair waited at the high, round table which had mysteriously shifted from some inner room of the house to his bed chamber.
The determination to cast aside a lifetime of Roman customs had gripped the household like a mania. Tables and benches replaced the divans and low tables in the triclinium. People no longer called the room a triclinium, instead referring to it as the dining room.
The oddly practical gowns Ilsa wore were now worn by all the women of the household, adjusted to match Elaine’s elegant adaptation, depending on their own inclinations.
Many of the men stopped shaving daily. They let their hair grow longer and didn’t comb it forward in the Roman fashion.
Arawn understood why his people did this. It was defiance, a shaking of their fist against the fates who delivered such misery upon them. If they no longer did what they had always done, perhaps they would no longer anger the gods, and the fates and their furies may smile upon them once more.
Arawn was pleased to see Ilsa had the strength to sit at the table, even if she was helped there. She had only woken ten days ago and Nimue had warned Arawn that her recovery would be longer than anyone’s in the household. Indeed, most of the household were already up and about.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 35