Daughters Of The Storm (33 page)

A loud knock at the door made Rowan stir.

‘Please, no,' Ivy said under her breath. She opened the door to see a serving woman there, with a tray of food.

‘Sighere sent food for you and the child,' she said.

‘Bring it in.' She looked around. Rowan was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Are you hungry, child?'

Rowan nodded. She was staring at the serving woman, who was Ærfolc with the typical ginger hair, green eyes, and freckled white skin. Rowan had clearly never seen Ærfolc before.

The woman left and Ivy closed the door and sat on the bed with Rowan to eat.

‘She had orange hair,' Rowan said.

‘She was Ærfolc. There are small tribes of them around here. You don't tend to see them in Netelchester or Ælmesse.'

‘What's Ærfolc?'

‘You don't know?'

Rowan shook her head, chewing noisily on a piece of cheese. Ivy didn't want to be bothered making conversation with a three
year old, but at least she wasn't crying for once. ‘Before our people came to Thyrsland, when there were still giants and dragons, the Ærfolc lived here. The first people. They were weak and disorganised and now there aren't so many left.' Ivy smiled. ‘They are still weak and disorganised. That's why they always end up serving us food and cleaning our horses' hooves.' Ivy took cruel pleasure in planting the notion in Rowan's mind. Rose, no doubt, would be horrified. Bluebell doubly so: she and Æthlric ruled on the basis all men were entitled to the same rewards, if they cared to take the same path to achieve them. What a nonsense, especially coming from the mouths of kings.

‘Do they all have orange hair?'

‘Mostly. Some half-breeds have golden hair.'

‘Like Heath?'

Heath. Of course. She hadn't really noticed. He must be a half-breed. ‘Yes, like Heath.'

‘I like Heath. I wish he could have come instead of Sibhere.'

‘Sighere,' Ivy corrected her. ‘Yes, I rather wish he could have come, too.' Though what use it would have been to her, she didn't know. Perhaps it was better she didn't see him or think of him again; didn't put her own body in place of her sister's when she reimagined that scene in the woods.

And now Rowan was prattling about Heath and riding on his horse and some other incomprehensible childish rambling, when Ivy's attention suddenly caught on something she was saying.

‘What was that, Rowan?'

‘Mama said Heath is a good friend of our family and he would help me if I'm scared.'

Ivy's suspicion prickled. ‘Did she, now?' She was looking at the little girl much closer now. Dark hair and eyes like Rose, like Wengest. But was there an auburn sheen in her hair? Or was that the candlelight? And that dimple in her left cheek, so like the
one in Heath's? And Bluebell's animosity towards Heath? Could it be?

Ivy smiled. She
knew.
She didn't need proof. Rowan was three years old; Heath had told her he'd been away at the border garrison for three years. And in all that time Rose hadn't fallen pregnant again.

‘Go on, stop talking and eat,' she said to Rowan, sitting back on the bed to watch her. It felt so good to close her fist around a secret, especially one about Heath.

Just past noon on the third day, Ivy's mood lifted dramatically. Perhaps it was the sunshine catching on the wings of bugs that skimmed across the flower-dotted meadows and shining on the stained white ruins of a magnificent arch overgrown with vines. Or Rowan's sweet observations now she had given up on crying. Or the knowledge that within a day, they would be in Wengest's court and she would finally come to rest for a while.

Rather than camping out overnight, Sighere had brought them to a village in northern Netelchester with a small guesthouse that overlooked the stream and the watermill. Near the edge of the stream, the stable stood, and at the door to the stable, the stable hand stood.

He was her age, with thick dark hair that fell in untidy curls. His hands were clean and strong, and his cheeks were flushed. Most importantly, he noticed her straightaway, offering her a bold smile as she handed him the reins of her horse.

She smiled back, but then Sighere was there, ordering the boy around and waving Ivy and Rowan out of the way. ‘Go inside the guesthouse. Leave this to me.'

Ivy didn't want to leave it to him and be hidden away from the world again, so she lingered near the stable door, stealing glances
at the boy. He would be a good way to purge her unfulfilled desire for Heath.

Then Rowan squealed happily and ran away, directly for the stream, and Ivy had to give chase.

She caught the little girl easily when she stopped to examine a ladybird. Ivy crouched next to her and glanced across the stream to the mill, its wheel turning slowly in the sunstruck water. The long grass waved in the breeze, and a robin sang sweetly in a tree. Ivy realised she was behind the stable here, right about where Sighere and the stable hand were standing talking. She brought Rowan with her, told the child to crawl in the grass to find another ladybird and positioned herself near the shutter to see if she could hear anything.

Sighere, in typical boring fashion, was giving the boy a rundown of the tasks that were expected and how much he'd be paid for them.

‘I can't find any, Ivy,' Rowan whined.

‘How about over there?' Ivy said, waving her away.

A happy shout told Ivy that Rowan had been successful. She strained to hear the voices over Rowan's chatter. But then, she was rewarded.

‘Who is the lady that travels with you, sir? Your wife?'

Ivy lifted her chin slightly, flattered to be the topic of conversation.

Sighere snorted. ‘Hardly. A friend's sister.'

‘Tell him I'm a princess,' Ivy muttered under her breath. ‘Go on.'

‘She's a pain in the arse,' Sighere continued. ‘Never stops complaining.'

The stable hand laughed. ‘I feel for you, sir.'

The heat rose up Ivy's neck and cheeks. She blinked back tears.

Rowan started crying. ‘Ivy, I broked my ladybird!'

Ivy strode away from the stable and grasped Rowan's arm firmly. The child was trying to wipe pieces of squashed ladybird off her fingers onto her dress. Ivy put her head down and kept
moving towards the guesthouse. The sooner this damned journey was over, the better.

The entrance to Folcenham was almost as impressive as the entrance to Blicstowe. Two tall, carved pillars stood either side of the gate, and the road up the hill was paved in pale grey flagstones that rang when the horse's hooves struck them, but the gate was smaller than Blicstowe's, the wood darker and the guards' uniforms a dull grey. It mattered little to Ivy. She had never been so glad to arrive somewhere. She fully intended to stay as long as it took for the memory of the slow, uncomfortable journey to fade. Her arse ached.

Sighere led them to the king's stables and helped Rowan down as stable hands rushed about to tend their horses. Ivy climbed down and stood a moment, stretching her cramped back and legs. Sighere was barking orders at the stable hands. He was filthy from travel dust and sweat, his long black hair lank. She touched her own hair. It, too, was dirty. How she longed for a hot bath.

Then a booming voice came from behind her.

‘My darling!'

She spun around to see Wengest, arms open. Rowan squealed and ran to him. Ivy watched as he swept her up and crushed her in an embrace. In contrast to all the dull, dirty people in the stables, he was dressed beautifully in a blue tunic, embroidered around the collar and cuffs with gold and red thread, and a dark grey cloak pinned with gold brooches. His beard was trimmed neatly across his square chin, and his dark wavy hair was held back from his face with a gold band. His fine appearance and clean white hands impressed deeply on Ivy.

Wengest put Rowan down long enough to approach Ivy with an outstretched hand. She noticed he wore gold rings on the first
three fingers of each hand. ‘I'm sorry, I believe we haven't met. Who are you that have brought my daughter home safe and where is my wife?'

She squeezed his hand gently. ‘We have met,' Ivy said. ‘At your wedding. I'm Rose's sister, Ivy.'

He dropped her hand, blinked and considered her more carefully. ‘Ivy? Could it be? Why, last time I saw you, you were a little girl.' He spread his palms and smiled. ‘Now you are a woman.'

Ivy beamed. ‘As to your other question, Rose and Bluebell and Ash have gone further north, into Bradsey, to look for a cure for my father's illness. They expect a journey of three weeks.'

Wengest's brow drew down in irritation. ‘Three weeks? And without consulting me?' Then he remembered himself and the smile returned. ‘Forgive me, but I haven't been quite the same without my wife and daughter here. Women are a welcome weight on a man's thoughts, so they don't fly everywhere.'

Ivy wasn't sure what he meant, but smiled anyway. ‘Rowan missed you very much,' she said. ‘Didn't you, little one?'

Rowan, who clung to Wengest's leg, nodded silently.

Wengest glanced down at his daughter. ‘Three weeks, eh? What am I to do with the child until then?'

Ivy hesitated a moment, then ventured: ‘I could stay.'

He brightened. ‘Would you? Rowan has a nurse, but she needs someone to love and I am very busy. You could have Rose's bower, and we would treat you as a princess of Ælmesse deserves to be treated. You needn't do anything but keep the child company during the day.'

Ivy needed no time to consider. ‘Of course. I would love that.'

Wengest bent to hug Rowan. ‘Who wouldn't want to spend more time with this little darling? What do you say, Rowan? Shall we let Ivy stay a little while until Mama gets back?'

‘I want Mama,' Rowan said uncertainly.

‘Ah, but when you were with Mama, all you spoke of was being with Papa,' Ivy said.

‘Is that right?' Wengest asked.

‘Bluebell killded you.'

Wengest's eyebrows shot up and Ivy had to laugh. ‘Bluebell beheaded a scarecrow. We didn't know Rowan was pretending it was you.'

He smiled, but Ivy could tell it was forced. ‘Well. Here I am. Alive and well.' He ruffled her hair. ‘Rowan, you show Ivy where you and Mama sleep. I'll send someone to bring you a hot bath and some food.' He nodded, then turned his attention to Sighere and the stable hands.

Rowan took Ivy's hand. ‘Come on,' she said, pulling hard.

Ivy followed her, glancing over her shoulders one last time to admire Wengest's beautiful clothes.

Travelling had exhausted Ivy. She slept deeply, heavy and soft, far beneath dreams: the kind of sleep one only achieves after hard labour or good works. Then a thin cry needled through the layers.

Ivy struggled to open her eyes, didn't recognise where she was, couldn't place the cry. Then it came again. She was in Rose's bower in Folcenham and Rowan was having a nightmare next to her.

‘Sh,' Ivy said, rolling over and stroking her hair, ‘it's just a bad dream.' She closed one eye as though it could help her hold onto sleep.