by Kim Wilkins
He was in cold seawater to his ankles, pushing the boat into the waves, when he noticed a shadowy movement at the corner of his eye.
Wylm turned. The randrman stood by, considering him in the pale sea-light. A frisson passed between them. Wylm wondered if Eirik would shout for Hakon, or try to stop him. A held breath.
But then Eirik simply nodded and said, ‘Let everything fall as it must.’
And Wylm was up to his shoulders in the sea, then climbing into the boat and taking up the oars, his left hand stinging thunderously.
He and Eni headed into the ocean.
Twenty-one
This is a dream of searing pleasure that will turn to cold shame on waking. She clings to it, pushing herself under the layers of sleep.
Willow lies on the soft carpet of grass. She is completely naked. Cool green under her warm skin. Her hair is loose, snaking around her. The sun lingers on her nipples. She bends her legs and lets them fall apart, so the sun can find that other sensitive bud. Her back arches. She is a flower sprouting from the earth; wild, sweet feelings traverse her.
Sighing, she drops her burden. She need not be a good soldier for Maava. She is simply a thing of flesh and breath and blood.
But then the sun flickers behind clouds and the rising wind tears the tops of the trees. She tries to prop herself on her elbows, but finds herself unable to move. Naked, pinned to the grass by her own mortal weight. The trees part and there are dozens of them. Men with beards and hairy forearms and blood-spattered armour. Raiders. Tattooed, savage raiders; the ones spoken of in horrified tones in the chapel. And they will see her, they will come for her, they will smash her soft virgin body beneath them. The dream swallows itself and turns to a nightmare. Frozen, she can do nothing but wait for the brutes to come at her.
But then one among them strides ahead. She can’t see his face, in the way that dreams have of obscuring crucial details behind a silver-grey cloud, but he is not a bearded brute, not a hairy bear. A lean, olive-skinned beauty of a man.
‘I won’t let them harm you,’ he declares, and she notices he wields a large, gleaming sword whose grip is covered in strange symbols. He rams it hard into the earth near her feet, and the raiders evaporate. Now it is just the cool green grass and the distant sun and the scudding clouds. He kneels before her, and she realises he can see every intimate inch of her body. The soft pink folds and openings, the whorls of dark-gold hair. Thumping, thrilling desire grasps her.
Willow woke, pulse thudding hotly between her legs. She rolled over, pressed her face into her rough blanket. The fire had died and smouldered to nothing. Cold filled the air around her. She reached down with the side of her palm between her legs and pushed hard in the hope it would make the feeling go away. To her surprise, the feeling intensified, grew hard, and she thought she might wet her bed, which she hadn’t done since she was a child. Then one, two, three big throbs pulsed through her, and the feeling withdrew.
Relief.
She listened for angels. Would they be angry with her? Or was the smooth-limbed man in her dream an angel himself? There was something familiar about him.
Cool embarrassment shivered over her as she realised. Wylm. Her stepbrother. She had dreamed of Wylm, but in such a way that it had some hypnotic effect on her blood and her shameful parts. She breathed deeply, her nose tickling against the rough threads of the blanket, willing herself back to sleep.
Hoping without hoping that the dream might return.
Why had Ivy never noticed before how handsome Wengest was? Perhaps it was the firelight, the company, the mead and the music. But it seemed to her his profile was one of the handsomest she had ever seen. Manly, yet gentle, with a noble forehead and dark, expressive eyebrows. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, and Ivy found herself stealing glances at him, trying to see that smile. It was hard to believe Rose had ever looked elsewhere. Because Wengest was something Heath could never be: a king.
Wengest was deep in conversation with the man next to him, who Ivy had figured out was the trimartyr preacher: fat as a pig and determined to finish every last morsel on his overladen plate. One of Wengest’s cousins, a widower duke from northern Netelchester, had arrived that afternoon with his retainers. Within an hour, the smells of roasting meat had been wafting from the hall and Nurse told Ivy to put on her best dress and get ready for a feast.
So here she was, sitting at the king’s table in Rose’s usual position, wearing her blue and gold dress pinned up with a silver brooch to show the bottom corner of her shift. She had a string of amber beads fastened across her chest, and her bright curls were brushed loose over her shoulders. Guthmer, Wengest’s visiting cousin, couldn’t stop looking at her from across the table. She made sure that when she laughed, she leaned her head back so he could admire her white neck. Not that she wanted him particularly: he was far too old for her liking, but she didn’t want him to look away. When somebody’s eyes were on her that hungrily, she knew she existed in the world.
The preacher — Nyll, that was his name — got up from the table and half-walked, half-stumbled outside, probably to relieve himself. Ivy felt a shudder of distaste at the thought. He probably pissed like a goat. Wengest, now free, turned his attention to her.
‘Are you bored?’
‘Not at all,’ she said, lowering her eyelashes a fraction.
‘Rose is always bored at these dinners.’
‘I cannot think why. New people are so interesting.’
Wengest glanced at Guthmer, then back to Ivy. He dropped his voice low and leaned in a little closer. ‘Guthmer seems very interested in you, too,’ he teased.
Ivy felt the tickle of his breath near her ear and it gave her an unexpected thrill. ‘He’s older than my father.’
Wengest smiled. ‘You are like your sister. You say what you think.’
‘Like Rose, you mean?’
‘Who else?’
Ivy grimaced. ‘I thought you might have meant Iron-tits.’
The corners of his mouth lifted. ‘Who’s that?’
Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘Bluebell.’
Wengest responded by leaning back and laughing loudly. Ivy felt the glow of being the focus of somebody’s warm attention.
‘I take it you aren’t so fond of your oldest sister?’ he said, reaching for his cup of mead.
Ivy was keen to say something else that would make Wengest like her. ‘She’s an overbearing bully, and I’ve never seen an uglier face unless it was a pig’s arse.’
This sent Wengest into thigh-slapping convulsions. The others at the table — Guthmer and his retainers — began to show interest in what the joke might be. Ivy entertained them with imaginative descriptions of Bluebell’s face and body, provoking roaring laughter. She kept going, until Guthmer said with barely a hint of jocular tone, ‘We’d be better off if she was dead.’
A short, tense silence followed, as they glanced at her to see if she would defend Bluebell. Ivy began to understand that Ælmesse’s peace with Netelchester was an uneasy one. A little coil of guilt moved in her stomach.
‘Come now,’ she said, with a smile as big as she could fake it, ‘surely you don’t mean that.’
Guthmer hesitated a moment, then laughed. ‘No, of course not.’
A ripple of forced laughter followed his words. Ivy gulped her mead. She felt very warm all of a sudden.
Nyll, the preacher, took the opportunity to speak. ‘She’s a heathen. Ælmesse is full of heathens. We should not be in alliance with them unless they take the trimartyr faith.’
‘If they do that, then Bluebell won’t rule,’ Wengest said with a dismissive hand gesture. ‘It will never happen. They won’t convert. We must let it go. And please, remember, Bluebell is my wife’s sister. We must speak well of her, especially in the company of Ivy’ He gave her a sidelong glance, nodded once, then returned to his food.
Ivy pushed back her stool. She felt self-conscious and as though she’d said too much. ‘I’m very tired,’
she said. ‘I bid you goodnight.’
‘Let me see you to your bower,’ Wengest said, jumping to his feet. He nodded, with a serious expression, at Guthmer.
Curious, Ivy let him take her by the elbow and lead her outside. The night was soft and smelled of flowers and dew. Behind a high hawthorn hedge stood a little stone chapel, with freshly stained wooden shutters and a curling green plant clinging to the stone. The hedge rustled as a bird or animal shrank from their footfalls. As soon as they were away from the hall, Wengest said, ‘Don’t mind Guthmer. He is not wise.’
‘I don’t mind.’
He cleared his throat, seemed to be struggling with words. ‘Don’t think I harbour the same hatred for your father’s kingdom.’
Ivy began to understand Wengest was afraid she would tell Bluebell what had been said at dinner. She almost laughed with relief. She wasn’t in trouble after all.
‘Wengest, be calm. I won’t say a word to Bluebell.’
He nodded, his mouth pulled in a tight line. ‘Our kingdoms were at war for a very long time. My grandfather was killed by your grandfather. The peace deal has saved many lives. I do not regret it. I do not regret marrying Rose.’
Ivy detected real affection in his words, and for some reason it made her feel sad. She had been thinking this evening she had Wengest’s full attention. She shook back her hair and smiled brightly. ‘Of course you don’t. She is beautiful.’
‘As is her sister,’ he said softly. His gaze travelled to her mouth, then he quickly looked away. ‘Goodnight, Ivy.’
‘Goodnight, Wengest.’
She watched him go then opened the door to the bower. She thought about what Nurse had said to her: men must find their pleasure or they bend out of shape. As she unpinned her clothes, she found herself turning that warm, promising idea over and over in her mind.
Ivy woke, wondering why she felt so rested. Ah. Rowan wasn’t in bed with her. She must have got up early and run off to find Nurse. Ivy stretched like a cat. The shutter was half open, letting in a beam of sunshine that fell across her bed. She loosened the front of her shift, opening it up so that her breasts were bare in the sunshine. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth, the decadence. She dozed like that a little while, but then a grumbling tummy told her it was time to get up. One foot on the rushes. Then the other. She laced her shift again, and reached for last night’s dress.
No. Rose would have many fine dresses here, surely. She was a queen, and they were much the same height and figure. Ivy walked across to the chest and flipped the lid open. She pulled out a few dresses and lay them on the bed. Then she turned her attention back to the chest. Under the dresses were other things: a little statue carved of stone, a wooden box with beads in it, a bronze hand mirror. Ivy pulled it all out curiously, laying things on the floor to look at each more closely. Rose had so many lovely things. It was hardly fair. So much jewellery! Rings and brooches and bracelets and necklaces. Bolts of cloth from far and exotic places; cloth Rose hadn’t even bothered getting made into dresses. Jealousy pinched her. She pulled a length of fabric against her cheek. The smooth silkiness of it. Further down in the chest was a tiny carved box. She reached for it. It was locked. This far into the bottom of the chest would surely be where Rose hid her tokens of love, the ones Heath must have given her. For who had a lover but didn’t receive presents from her beloved? Coloured ribbons or polished stones: things that meant nothing to those who didn’t know that they had been given with love? Ivy became desperate to know what was in the locked box. She sat on the bed with it, grabbed the knife off her belt and prised the lock. No luck.
Frustrated now. Certain she was missing out on seeing something important. She cast her glance about and saw on the dress a rock that Rowan had been playing with yesterday. Ivy hefted it in her right hand. Then took aim and — crack! The lock popped off. She smiled, flipped open the box.
Just as the door opened and Nurse walked in.
Ivy realised immediately it didn’t look good. Rose’s things strewn everywhere, the lock busted on the floor and her with her fingers inside the box. Disappointingly, it only contained keys.
‘What are you doing?’ said Nurse.
‘Nothing,’ Ivy said, aware it was a ridiculous thing to say.
Nurse strode across the room and took the box from her. ‘You must not touch.’
‘I was only looking,’ Ivy said, ashamed. She felt very young.
‘These are your sister’s things. Leave them be.’
Embarrassment made Ivy bristle. How dare the nurse speak to her this way? Did she not realise Ivy’s father was the most powerful man in all of Ælmesse? She drew herself up tall. ‘These are my sister’s things,’ Ivy said, ‘and my sister asked that I come here in her stead. She did not say, however, that I had to be commanded by you. Forget not that you are her servant and so my servant.’
Nurse glared at her briefly, then dropped her eyes and said, ‘Rowan has been asking after you. Would you come and play with her in the hall?’
‘As soon as I am dressed,’ Ivy said, pleased she had won the game. ‘Go on, leave me be.’
Nurse left without another word.
Ivy hadn’t had a moment’s peace all day. Nurse had gone to visit her sister, so Ivy had full responsibility for Rowan. What a handful the child was! Demanding games, whining endlessly for food, losing her temper over the slightest frustration and pissing over herself— and Ivy’s shoes — in a forgetful moment. One thing Ivy knew for certain after today was that she never wanted children of her own. She’d sooner poke her own eyes out than have to endure that burden daily.
Finally, when Rowan had found herself keenly interested in watching the cook gut the deer for the evening’s meal, Ivy had slipped away somewhere quiet. She ended up in the chapel garden, taking deep breaths of late afternoon air laden with the scent of flowers. She sat on the grass and drew up her knees, resting her forehead gently on them. Breathing in, out. The clatter of the hall seemed very far away. The afternoon wind rushed through branches in the distance and was cool upon her cheeks.
‘Ivy?’
She looked up. Wengest stood by the garden gate, smiling.
‘Hello,’ she said, returning his smile.
‘Have you lost Rowan?’
‘Rather on purpose. I’m sorry.’
He laughed and let himself into the garden. ‘Rose wears that same weary expression when Nurse isn’t about. May I sit with you?’
‘Of course.’
He folded himself up on the grass next to her. She saw him glance quickly and slyly at the top of her dress, where her breasts strained against the fabric. Well, they were magnificent after all. Will Dartwood had said so and plenty of other men had been enamoured of them in the last few months. She shifted so she was leaning back to show off their size and shape to full advantage.
Wengest, however, was looking up at the sky. Ivy’s eyes followed his gaze. Both deliberately not watching each other: she knew this game. A buzz of bright heat was growing between them, and Ivy could have laughed. What fun! Wengest wanted her. He wanted her. Even though she was his sister by marriage. There wasn’t enough room in her heart for the vain pride the thought aroused.
‘I’ve often thought if sunset only came once a year, everybody would stand outside to watch it,’ Wengest said, ‘but because it happens every day, we don’t bother.’
And here he was, trying to impress her with his observations. He was a king, yet not so very different from the young men she had dallied with. She dropped her head and looked up at him under her eyelashes. ‘It’s very pretty. Sad to take one’s eyes off something so pretty.’
He smiled at her, responding to her flirtation. ‘When I first saw you there, with your head on your knees, I thought you must be crying. But I can’t actually imagine you crying,’ he said. ‘You are always so happy.’
‘I am full of happiness, Wengest,’ she said. ‘But I had my head on my knees thinking.’ She frowned a little ... prettily she hoped. ‘I h
ave things on my mind.’
A silence. Then she continued, in a low voice, ‘Do you want to know what’s on my mind?’
Wengest shifted so he was looking at her face-on. ‘Yes. Tell me.’
Her heart sped up, as it always did when she crossed the first line of a man’s defences. ‘You,’ she said, on a hot breath.
Feeling the first bite of the fire, he dropped his gaze and shook his head. ‘And why would I be on your mind, Ivy?’
Careful now, Ivy, don’t go too far. ‘Because you are gracious and kind and handsome. And I think my sister is very lucky to call you her own. I should consider myself very lucky, if I were she. And I should do whatever I could to please you.’
Wengest glanced at her again and Ivy saw desire in his eyes. But his reason overrode it, and he said nothing.
Ivy was about to push a bit harder against his resistance, when a loud shout broke the afternoon quiet. Rowan barrelled through the open gate and threw herself at Wengest.
‘Raaaar!’ she shouted. She brandished a wooden plate in one hand and a stick in the other.
Wengest laughed and caught her around the waist. ‘Slow down, slow down, soldier.’
‘I’m not a soldier. I’m a warrior queen. Like Bluebell.’
Wengest’s laughter immediately dried up. ‘Ah, I see. Well, warrior queens don’t tend to make friends easily, and they almost never marry. So perhaps you should play with your poppets instead.’ He gave her head a rub. ‘Go on, off with you. Ivy will take you back to the kitchen.’
Ivy suppressed a sigh, and stood up to take Rowan’s hand. As they left, she glanced back over her shoulder at Wengest, who sat on the grass watching them. She recognised the look in his eyes and she swayed her hips a little in response. Sighere had called her a pain in the arse, Heath had said she was barely a woman. Well, neither of them were kings. Wengest was, and he wanted her. She knew it.
Ivy didn’t see Wengest for two days after that, and she often found herself wondering whether he was avoiding her on purpose. Tupping a servant girl was one thing, but climbing aboard one’s sister-in-law was quite another; perhaps he thought it easier to be blind to her rather than battle his conscience. She tried to get on, keeping busy with Rowan, but the longer she went without seeing him, the more convinced she became that she had to have him. Lying in bed those two nights, she imagined him sliding his rough hand under her shift to close over her breast, pressing his hot tongue into her mouth. She would tingle from her toes to her navel with the thoughts, while Rowan slept unknowingly next to her.