Daughters Of The Storm (40 page)

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.'