“Stop blubbering,” she snapped. “Get up and change. God knows they want you gotten up like a goddess tonight, and I’ve been assigned the revolting task of grooming you for the feast. No, go bathe. And I’ll call my women. I wouldn’t soil my hands by touching you again.”
I dried my tears as I watched her retreating back, rose, and went to the bath by the sea. I wondered who had really tried to kill me in the cave on the island. I was scrubbing my hands with the myrrh soap when something occurred to me. Something had dropped the temperature of my heart to so cold a place that I shivered in the warm sun. If she meant to rule me in this way, how did she and the dark sorcerer Merlin rule her son?
No, I thought. No! That can’t be it, just can’t be. Some things are too awful to contemplate, at least for a thirteen year old, and the idea of what it must be like to live day in and day out with those two devils… well, I pushed it out of my mind, and I wouldn’t think about it any longer. Instead, I got out of the pool and delivered myself over to the maids.
They were servile, and I could see why now. A few doses of the pain Igrane liked to inflict and I’ll get servile, too. They were of the immature type, who like to play with dolls up to and into adulthood. Not to collect, not to keep, not to admire, but to play with, and that’s what I felt like— a doll.
They curled my hair—the stink of the irons was appalling. Mud packed my face—yes, I did have a light tan; what would you expect, as I live and work outdoors. Rubbed a perfume into a half dozen places on my body, then overdressed me in linen strophium, sleeveless shift, sleeved shift, overdress of silk, and I only just barely managed to fight off a brocade dalmatic. But I won the shoe battle, because they didn’t notice mine had changed. All the while, they were talking about my mother in Latin, which they didn’t think I understood. Repeating poison from Igrane’s own lips about how she was far too free with the “friendship of her thighs,” a nasty euphemism for promiscuity.
I didn’t know, I don’t remember her, not really. And if she was fond of the old ways, it may have been true. Once upon a time women were much freer than they are now. Freer in speech, behavior, and the use to which they put their bodies. A great lady could make a bastard if the day was auspicious, the man a hero, or even especially distinguished in talent or appearance. No one thought any less of her for it. In fact, she was even honored for wanting to bring a fine person into the world. But the Romans, who think women an inferior species of human beings, and the church, which Dugald says mirrors Roman attitudes in many ways, have brought these old customs into ill repute. So the serving women were not slow to slander my mother; and if they didn’t know I spoke tolerable Latin, Igrane, who was monitoring my dressing with an unpleasant smile on her face, probably did know, and the conversation was probably one I was meant to overhear. But I don’t think I gave her any satisfaction, because I managed to keep a stupid look on my face the entire time.
When they were finished polishing me for presentation, who should show up but Magetsky. She landed in a fluff of black feathers on the rail of the garden, strutted along it among the rosemary branches, and swore at me in First, Second, and Third Raven. I would like to have said something back at her, but I was afraid to call attention to her, lest Igrane find a way to kill her. She gave me hope that Maeniel was somewhere nearby, because I knew she wouldn’t fly all this way to find me, not even for him.
But by then it was almost dark, and Igrane dragged me into the procession toward the feasting hall.
When we reached the feasting hall, I knew I was in trouble. The gathering was being held in the same glass pavilion that the Gray Watcher had described to me. It was thronged with the wealthy and powerful of the British court, both Saxons and Romano British. You see, the two were not separate from each other. The Saxons, then as now, did the bidding of the Romano British landowners. They held down the old people, from among whom I come, and married their daughters off to Saxon lords and granted land to the ones who maintained their position, collected their taxes and duties. They granted them lands to rule, not to work, as my people did.
This Arthur was their creature; and as soon as the contract was signed, they would regard me as one of them, also.
No, I thought. No, and no, and no! I won’t do it.
“You see,” Igrane said, and pointed at a table very near the door. “We have found a few of your male kin to witness the signing of the papers.”
Oh, God, I thought, and looked and looked again. On, no, they were awful. There were three of them. The center one, to whom Igrane was pointing, was red. It isn’t a fashionable color at present, but red he was, with a thick thatch of scarlet hair. His face was the beetroot color of a heavy drinker, though that wasn’t much of a claim to fame in this company. Nearly every fourth man looked as though he imbibed to the point of folly.
The two on each side were worse. The one on the right was big and dark, much like a bear. Wearing a skin cap and old leather armor, very old leather armor—it was ratty and the backing shone through the breaks and weak spots. The other was long and lean, with brigand mustachios and stringy hair. He was wearing a much rent chain mail shirt.
“We believe the one in the center to be your father.” The distaste and contempt in her voice were stinging.
From where I stood, they all looked drunk, pink faced, sleepy eyed.
The feast had not begun yet, and many people were strolling, conversing with one another, seeing and allowing themselves to be seen. Merlin was seated in the chair at the head of the table, or rather in the center seat farthest from the door. After the Roman fashion, he wore a wreath rather than a crown. It was gold and decorated with oak leaves, acorns, and the drooping nude flowers that cover oak branches in the spring. Oak leaves, flowers, and I am sure, leaves and roots would be present, also, an enchanter’s crown, a thing of awesome power. The dalmatic he flaunted over dark leggings was of silver cloth brocaded with blue oak leaves. His mantle was woven silver mail.
He was magnificent.
As was Arthur. He wore gold and scarlet, as befitted the summer king, and the figure of the dragon with scarlet wattles and crest was embroidered in red and gold on his linen dalmatic. No, not one dragon, but two in the neck twine of love or battle. They do it in both; it is a test of strength. His mantle was cloth of gold.
Igrane was introducing me around in a not very flattering way.
“Yes, we will sign the contract tonight. I think it’s time he made some good connections. She is from a prominent Irish family, and we have an eye on several others.”
“Just as well you snagged her now. Those oracles were raising the very devil among my people.” This observation was contributed by a hard faced, middle aged woman. “Twice my son in law had to put down disturbances on the river, but we will have no more problems with them. I ordered three hundred of them on shipboard to be sold to the Greeks. I find it’s best to go ahead and take the money before the ship sails and let the captain absorb the risk. A lot die in transit. He paid me two hundred aurei for the lot. The slave trade is booming. I let it be known among the peasants who work my lands that I’d just as soon take my profits out in flesh as in kind. They’ve been on their best behavior ever since—even the house servants.”
My stomach lurched. Then I wondered what it’s like to be sold, dragged away from family, friends, all the familiar things in life. Taken to almost another world—there to live life out as a possession treated no better than an animal, if as well, an exile until you die. If that were the only cruelty, it would still be bad, but most often, as Kyra had told me, it’s worse. Slavers, you see, don’t bother with babies, very young children, old folks, not even most adults. They don’t burden themselves with such trash. Mostly they kill them. Especially if they fight, they will kill them, and Kyra’s husband had fought.
So he, her son, and her baby had been killed. In my nightmares—and I am visited by many of these she beasts from time to time—I see Kyra’s breasts the way they ran milk for some months after she came to us. Her dress was sticky with it, and when she and I went down to the stream near the sea to wash, she wept and wept and wouldn’t be consoled. No, I would never become one of these people. No, I would never sign that contract.
I jerked my hand away from Igrane’s by timing my movement when she was deep in conversation with one of the ladies. I said, “I think I’ll go visit my kin.”
I thought I might as well see if they were good for anything. She looked annoyed, and I felt pain in my right hand and arm, as I had before; but this time I wouldn’t yield to it and walked through it toward the table. The three men glanced at one another with amusement as I drew closer, defiance set on my face. I had expected them to look worse and worse the closer I got, but oddly, that didn’t happen. The closer I got, the better looking they appeared. First, the unhealthy color of the center man’s face wasn’t color at all. Well, it was, but it didn’t stem from ill health. He was tattooed. As I said, he was red haired and very fair skinned; the tattoos were Celtic swirls of blue, running from his hairline down his face and neck, chest and arms. The effect was striking and oddly beautiful, and for the first time I could see the art in all its glory on a warrior.
Such decorations could inspire terror in battle and respect in other men. Something a man like him would wish. As I approached, I realized he’d begun to stare at me the same way I looked at him, with intense seriousness. The man on his left had looked lean and rather unhealthy from a distance, and I judged him some pathetic hanger on here for food. But again, as I drew closer, the first impression faded. He was dark with fair skin, tattooed like his friend. His tattoos were gray, black, and tawny, the same outlining marks and spirals covering his face and neck and seeming to extend to his whole body. His leanness didn’t seem now that of ill health but rather feline. His slightest movement was an expression of grace and power.
The third on the right was even more of a shock than the other two had been. He had seemed fat and his skin mottled with red, but on closer examination I could see what seemed fat was rather massive power. He was as strongly muscled as any man I have ever seen. His hair, skin, and beard were dark, but his tattoos were in red. Even his ears were tattooed red. This puzzled me. I paused about five feet from the table and realized that my first impression had been right. These men didn’t belong here. None of them were civilized enough for this room.
Were warriors at the Irish courts really like this? Did even they show this degree of ferocity and battle hunger? I studied the red haired man in the center.
“You say you are my kin?” I asked.
“You are not alone in having your doubts. When they said you were her daughter, I didn’t believe it,” he replied. Then he turned to the lean, dark one. “I told you that, did I not, Kiernan?”
Kiernan stroked his long mustache. “Yes, Mael, my dearest love, you did. Indeed you did, but I think you might be wrong. It is her to the life.”
“Aye,” Mael mused, then spoke to me. “You are thirteen, they say. I never knew her at thirteen. My loss that, indeed. God help me, I never knew her at thirty. Again my loss, my dire loss. But unless I am mistaken, and most often I will tell you I am not mistaken, girl, you are her to the life. What say you, Eoan?” He addressed the bull like one. “Is she not like my own angel, my spirit of springtime, my adored one? To the life she is.
“Come to me, girl. Place your hand in mine. Perhaps it is that I am your father.”
Eoan gave a snort of derision. “And perhaps it is that you are not, Mael. I believe there are four or five other strong fellows who are in close competition with you for the honor.”
I was stricken with anger. “You mock me,” I said.
“Ha!” the one called Kiernan said. “It is not you we mock, but this—” he elbowed Mael’s ribs “—lout’s pretensions.”
“My mother’s virtue—”
“Girl, Guynifar, is it? Your mother’s great virtues have nothing to do with the matter.” He grinned at Mael. “It’s her taste we find questionable. But I believe if you want him for a father—” he elbowed Mael again “—you may claim him at present. Later, upon better acquaintance, you may want to change your mind.”
“Be still, fools,” Mael snapped. “Whatever may be found about who sired her, she is the mare’s true foal. Besides, she may think you speak slightingly of her mother, who was the faithful, honest, hardworking wife of that mean, grasping brother of mine for thirty years. You see, girl, when the king died and went—” He broke off. “Where do the dead go?” he asked Kiernan.
“I cannot say,” Kiernan answered, “but I think it is unimportant in this discussion. Wherever the dead go, it is not here, or should I say, they are not here. Which is all that truly matters for the purposes of your explanation.”
“In any case,” Mael continued, “when my brother died, Riona—your mother—needed a bit of a departure from too much respectability, so she chose me.”
“You do fit that description, Mael. You are a departure from respectability, all right. That I’ll believe,” Eoan said.
“Come, girl,” Mael said, leaning toward me. “Give me your hand.”
I tightened my right hand into a fist and pressed it against my stomach. “Oh, why?” I asked. “So you can sell me to Merlin and Igrane?”
They laughed and exchanged speaking glances.
“You don’t like the boy?” Mael asked. He glanced over at Arthur. Now, since the table was circular and we were near the doors, Arthur and Igrane were standing across the room from us. Even a round table has a head and foot, I realized. Arthur and Merlin were at the head in the warmest, most comfortable part of the room, while I and my relatives were at the foot, near the door, the coldest, least comfortable side of the room.
Arthur was handsome. Just the sight of him stirred strange longings in me.
“No!” I answered Mael boldly. “I like him well enough—too much, in fact. I just don’t care for some of his friends.”
Mael nodded.