A
NA SPENT THE rest of the afternoon alone. Ludha had not come to her chamber and she had no inclination to go looking for the maidservant, since that meant being seen around the house with her nose running and her eyes swollen with crying. She had done the right thing, she told herself as she stood by the narrow window, watching rooks about their business atop the elms beyond the
wall. The rain continued unabated, a steady, soft fall that turned the forest to a misty gray tinted with silver. There had been no choice but to sever the tie; to bid him good-bye. Her wedding dress was laid out on the bed. A pair of kidskin slippers sat neatly by the embroidered hem. To keep on talking to him, to cling to those brief interchanges that were the heart of her existence here, was to
endanger Drustan himself. That, she could not do.
Ana shivered, moving across to the bed and kneeling to run a hand over the exquisite work her maid had done on the gown. A band of embroidery went around the highwaisted skirt, formal in style as befitted the occasion, regular patterns of fronds and leaves in shades of green and soft blue. Here and there was a delicate flower; here and there,
too, were little round-eyed creatures, for like all true artists Ludha had been unable to keep her personal touch from her work: vole, marten and salamander, siskin, frog and dragonfly could all be found half-hidden in the ordered sprays of ferns and greenery. The fabric itself was pale fine wool, spun and woven by Sorala, who was the most skilled of the Briar Wood women in these crafts. The gown
had a modest cut—Ana had insisted on that—with long, narrow sleeves and a round neckline. The skirt fell in soft folds from a band of blue-dyed wool just below the breasts. She knew it was a lovely thing and that she looked well in it. All the same, she felt a shiver of revulsion as she gathered it up, folded it carefully and put it in the storage chest. The gown represented Alpin; she could not look
at it without imagining him undoing the fastenings, peeling it off her shoulders, and then doing what he had to do to her, tomorrow night. How could she bear that? How could she pretend? And how could she stop this flood of weeping, which seemed fit to drown her right here where she stood?
She lay on the bed a while, attempting to fix her mind on happy things. Half-asleep, she drifted in a realm
that was not quite the home of her childhood and not quite the garden at White Hill, but some mixture of the two in which she walked and played and laughed with a pair of little children. She was of this scene and at the same time apart, as is the way with half-dreams: at the same time Ana was one of the small girls, and yet she was watching them from a distance. Their game was elaborate, featuring
a pair of well-loved woolen dolls, grimy from many adventures, who were made to scale a drystone wall before embarking on a daring raid across a field full of cows. The children’s skirts were muddier than the dolls’.
It’s my turn, Ana.
No, it’s mine.
I had it first.
I’m the eldest, you have to do what I say.
Do not!
Then the child that was Ana gave a push and her sister fell, her tunic and
arms instantly coated with the dark, heavy mud of the cow field. Breda began to wail. Back home: Auntie getting out the willow switch, Ana shrinking back against a wall.
Put out your hand
. The urge to say,
It wasn’t my fault, she made me
, as she heard Breda sniffing and sobbing out in the kitchen and being mollified with honey cakes. Choosing not to say anything. The back straight, the head high,
the hand held out firmly, not a tremor in it.
I am a princess
. Then the blow …
Ana sat up with a start, blinking. Outside the light was fading; she’d fallen asleep. It was nearly suppertime and there was still no sign of Ludha. She’d have to wash and change by herself, make herself beautiful for Alpin’s intimate feast for two. Gritting her teeth, she made her way out to the privy that served
the family quarters, noting a guard outside Alpin’s door and a second at the head of the stairs. This did not trouble her. She had become accustomed to the close presence of armed minders during her earlier years as a royal hostage. Her trips to Banmerren had usually been in the company of four large men; wasted, as it turned out, since her cousin, the king of the Light Isles, had made not a single
effort either by force of arms or by diplomacy to win her freedom. And now she was reduced to this: tying herself to a husband she despised, and living a stone’s throw from the man she loved and could never have.
Back at the door of her chamber, the tall figure of Orna stood waiting. “You’ll be wanting help to dress for supper.”
“Where’s Ludha?”
“Taken a little poorly. She won’t be here tonight.”
The housekeeper had gone into Ana’s chamber and was making herself at home, opening the chest and hunting for suitable clothing. She lifted out the wedding gown carefully, setting it aside. “Which of these do you prefer, my lady? The blue?”
Ana was inclined to stamp her foot childishly and say she would have none of them. “The gray, please,” she said politely. “What’s wrong with Ludha? She seemed
quite well this morning.”
“Nothing much. A few aches and pains, that’s all. Are you sure about the gray?” Orna held the tunic up, frowning; eyed the matching skirt. Of all the outfits that had been provided for Ana, this was the plainest.
“Yes.” A girl had brought warm water; Ana washed her face and hands in the bowl provided, dried herself and, turning her back on the housekeeper, took off
her outer clothing. She stood still as Orna slipped the gray tunic over her head; she stepped into the skirt and submitted to the fastening of its girdle by the other woman. When it was done, Ana looked into the bronze mirror that stood on her shelf, seeing her image dimly in the flawed surface, unsteady candlelight adding to its ghostly vagueness.
“I’ll dress your hair for you, my lady.”
“No,
I’ll do it, Orna.” It felt wrong, somehow, for this dour servant, little more than a mouthpiece for Alpin, to perform such an intimate task. Orna said nothing, but began sorting and folding the discarded garments. Ana brushed and plaited and worked her abundance of flaxen hair back with cruel discipline into a ribboned net; not a wisp was allowed to escape. The blotched and reddened features that
stared back at her from the bronze were not those of a bride happy in anticipation of sweet time spent alone with her beloved. She looked wretched.
“You can’t go in to him like that,” Orna said bluntly. “The clothes are bad enough; you might as well have a wise woman’s robe on, you’re so covered up. Well, it’s your choice. But you’d best leave your hair loose, at least, or he’ll see in an instant
that you’ve spent your afternoon weeping.”
She was right. Ana pulled out the pins she had jabbed into the tight weaving of plaits, removed the net and let the long, gold flow of her hair fall down her back instead, with one narrow, plaited strand across her brow. Her eyes were still ugly and red, but it was not at them Alpin would look first.
“Aye, that’s better.” Orna’s tone was not unfriendly.
“A word of advice, my lady; I hope you won’t take it amiss.”
“If you’ve something to say, Orna, best just say it.” Ana did not care to be bullied, and this had felt remarkably like it. And she was worried about Ludha, who had shown no signs of illness earlier.
“We can all see you’re not happy,” Orna said. “That you’re not settled yet. There’s one lesson we all learn here at Briar Wood, my lady,
if we’re to stay safe and peaceful. That’s to keep our mouths shut on certain topics. That way we can get on with things and no harm done.”
“What are you saying, Orna?”
“Just that. Give him the answers he wants and you’ll make him happy. And if he’s happy we all are.” The housekeeper’s grim expression did nothing to convince Ana that this was sound advice. Indeed, it made her deeply uneasy.
“Orna,” she said, “you were here when Lord Alpin’s first wife was still alive, weren’t you?”
“I was.” Orna went to the door, ready to whistle for a lad to clear away the bowl and jug.
“What do you think happened on that day? The day she died? Do you believe—”
“Hush!” Orna’s tone was a sharp hiss. “Don’t make this any worse, my lady. He’s told you the tale of it, I’m sure, and that means you’ve
no need to hear it again from me. It’s in the past, and the past’s best forgotten.”
“Even if it means a man might be falsely accused and wrongly imprisoned?” Ana’s heart was thumping.
Orna closed the door abruptly. “I know you’re not foolish, my lady. You just haven’t grasped our ways here. This is a matter that’s not spoken of. Not ever. You’d best follow that rule, for your own sake at least.
He’s not in the best of moods tonight, I heard him shouting earlier. My advice is to do whatever you need to do to win his favor. Please him if you can. Now I’m away, I’ve other things to do. He’s expecting you as soon as you’re ready. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.” And with that she was gone.
The boy came and cleared the washing things. There was nothing to stop Ana from going next door;
Alpin would be waiting, perhaps impatiently. There had been no reason for Orna to give this gratuitous advice. Ana was to marry the man tomorrow. Of course she had to please him. She should go now, right away, and make a start on it. But her feet were reluctant to move. She lingered by the window, her brow against the cool stone, her eyes closed.
I love you
, she said in silence.
More than home
and family, more than beauty and wisdom and goodness, more than life itself. Forever and always.
A small fluttering of wings: she opened her eyes. The wren, which he had called Heart, was perched on the sill by her hand. As she breathed its name the tiny bird flew up to her shoulder. With its gold-brown coloring it seemed quite at home shielded by the bright flow of her hair.
“No,” she murmured,
reaching up to take the creature in her hand; it made no attempt to evade her. “Not tonight; I can’t take you with me.” She put her hand out the window, releasing the bird into the pale light of the summer evening. It fluttered just beyond the opening, and when Ana stepped back it flew in again and back to her hand.
“Go,” she said. “Go home, go back to him. If he somehow hears your voice, if
he can see through your eyes, tell him I love him; I will love him forever. Show him my tears. But don’t stay with me. Alpin mustn’t see you.”
She put the bird on the sill. It perched there, watching her, a fragile slip of feathers, eyes bright with a wild knowledge she could never understand. “Tell him,” she whispered, and went to the door and out before the wren could follow. Then it was chin
up, shoulders straight, back held like a queen’s, and she walked to Alpin’s door. The guard let her in.
Her courage lasted only until she looked into her future husband’s eyes. For all the festive supper laid out on the table, the candles in their silver holders, the fine glassware and ornately decorated spoons, there was something in Alpin’s expression tonight that chilled her to the marrow.
“You took your time,” he said. “Sit down, I’ll pour you some mead. I’m getting hungry.”
“My maid has been taken ill. It took me a little longer to dress.”
“Taken ill, is she?” Alpin passed a goblet across to her, then leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, hands clasped around his own cup. His knuckles were white. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
The chill had deepened. “What do you
mean? What is wrong with Ludha? What are you telling me?”
“Your maid required chastisement once again. She’s become quite lax in some respects since we gave her over to your control, so much so I think we may have to dispense with her services. A little unfortunate, as I understand the girl has no family to go to. But there it is.”
“Are you saying someone has hurt her? That she’s been beaten?
This is completely unacceptable! I told you I would mete out any punishment myself—what’s she supposed to have done, anyway? She’s behaved perfectly in every respect. She’s spent days and days on the wedding gown—”
“I would be careful if I were you.” Alpin rose to his feet, his voice dangerously quiet. “Very careful. Perhaps your serving girl has not committed the more common sort of offense
such as stealing or slovenliness or lechery. But she’s guilty of something far worse than those; she’s broken one of my rules,
my
rules, the ones by which this entire household is governed. If a beating is all she’s incurred for it the girl should count herself fortunate.”
“What rule?” Ana fought for a steady tone.
“Let’s not discuss that just yet. I’ve an appetite for this fine supper, though
I must say I was hoping I might at the same time enjoy the sight of my lovely betrothed with the fair skin of her shoulders and arms, and perhaps a hint of bosom, set off by a delicate gown suited to her wedding eve. Your blue, perhaps; you look fetching in that. What I see before me is the moon veiled by clouds. You look like a widow in mourning.” As he spoke he was passing her a platter of baked
fish, another of onions and cheese, as if this were an ordinary occasion. Mute, Ana helped herself from both, then sat staring down at her hands. She did not feel like the moon, nor like a widow. She felt like a creature caught in a trap, alone and terrified.