The Legend of Lady Ilena (13 page)

“Lovely work, lady.”

She beams and smooths the piece with hands twisted from rheumatism. I think of the pain this piece of fabric has cost her.

A metalworker shows gold bracelets and circlets. I wonder how many can afford his wares. A young man is bargaining for a twisted-wire headpiece. I listen as the price is agreed on.

“A bag of oats from this harvest and two chickens, then. Though it’s dear enough.”

“A loss to me! How I’ll make a living giving things away like this, I don’t know.”

“I’ll get your oats and the fowl. Don’t sell it to another, now.”

“Aye, and I’d like to. Chickens are a nuisance. Mind you tie them well.”

“And using my own thong, I suppose?”

“For the price I’m giving you, a bundle of thongs! And why you folk don’t use coin, I don’t know.”

“It’s mostly been melted down by metalworkers for overpriced jewelry.” The buyer hurries away to get his part of the trade. Both men look pleased enough despite their complaints.

I can see where Moren came by the things he brought home from his trips. Did he walk through this same market disguised from those who would know him, or did Ryamen or someone else purchase what he wanted and take it out to him?

People are gathering by the kitchen door. As I move closer, I see the stable boy I met earlier, and I hurry away before he can see me. Back in the market area the crowd has begun to thin. I feel conspicuous now and look for a place to get out of sight while I decide where to look for Ryamen.

A clump of oaks stands against the ramparts and near a cluster of family houses. I weave my way between a cart of crated chickens and a woodworker’s
stack of stools and head across open ground toward the trees. This must be the main roadway, as it is rutted from cart and chariot wheels and strewn with fresh manure. I keep a close eye on where I step and so don’t see the child in front of me until I bump into his back.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, wench?” It is not a child’s voice. He turns, and I see a man’s face, rough and bearded. I recover my balance and stare at him. He is no taller than a boy of eight or nine summers, but his head is large, almost normal adult size. I can’t see his legs under the cloak he holds around himself, but I guess that they are short like his arms. He wears wide gold bracelets above child-size hands. An enameled brooch closes the cloak.

It is his face that holds my attention. His forehead is large and flat, with coarse, dark hair bushing up above it. His ears are little, and his thick neck goes straight down from his head without any curve at all. Deep folds around his eye sockets almost hide his eyes.

“Look at me, then. Look your fill. Stupid girl. Have you no manners?” He turns and stomps away.

I cringe at the anger in his voice. I’ve been staring rudely. I’ve never seen a dwarf before, though I’ve heard about them often. I call after him, “I’m sorry, sir. I was watching where I walked and did not see you.”

He stops at my words and whirls around. His eyes are dark, and they fix on my face with a frightening intensity. I hold my breath as he moves back to stand
close to me. I realize that I forgot my disguise and spoke without the whine.

He reaches up with both hands and parts my hair so he can see my face. I want to run away, but I am frozen to the spot. The noise of the market dims in my ears, and I cannot measure the time we two spend, silent and unmoving, staring at each other.

When he speaks, the anger is gone from his voice. “They told me true. You could be the lady herself.”

I gulp and swallow down the dryness in my throat. “Which lady, sir? Who do people mistake me for?”

He looks past me, and I hear horses bearing down on us. He drops my hair over my face and growls, “Don’t turn around.”

The voice behind me is familiar. “Well, Spusscio, what do you have? A wench, it seems.” Resad’s laugh mingles with another man’s.

“Aye,” the dwarf says, “if we can agree on a price.”

“She can’t be worth much. I saw her come in with the others, and the worst of the lot, she looks.”

“Well, she values herself highly enough.” Spusscio has taken hold of my arm. I’m surprised at the strength in the little hand.

“Here. I’m glad to help out in a good cause.” Two coins fall into the dirt at our feet.

“Thank you, Resad. Your generosity is exceeded only by your kind heart.” There is a bitter edge to my companion’s voice. He jerks me to his side and, at the
same time, turns me so that my face is away from the horsemen as they ride by. Their laughter mixes with the dirt their horses churn up.

The dwarf doesn’t release my arm until he has tugged me across the roadway to the cluster of oaks. Once we are inside their shelter, he lets me go. I look around for someplace to get away from him.

“Oh, lass, I won’t hurt you. I apologize for the rough words, but that’s what Resad understands.” His voice is courteous, and I sense a genuine warmth.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

He laughs. “If you’re the fighter I heard you were, I probably couldn’t do anything with you. With your permission, I’d like to take you to Belert. He will be relieved to see that you are well.”

I think back to the Great Hall, to Belert’s face when he spoke with me, to his expression when Ogern sent me to the Oak Grove. If I am to find Ryamen, I need help, and I cannot stay out here where everyone can see me. “Gladly,” I say.

Spusscio sets a quick pace across the compound to one of the dwelling places behind the Great Hall. When we enter the dim interior, I find that it is larger than it looked from across the grounds. We move to a wooden door set in a wicker partition. I can see four other doors around the central hearth.

Spusscio points to the door to our right. “That is the chief’s chamber. No one lives in this house now
except the two of us.” He shoves the door in front of me open. “You can stay in here.”

I step inside as he opens shutters to let daylight in. The room is luxurious. It is almost as large as our entire house in the West. The sleeping ledge is wide, with a thick layer of soft skins over the straw. There is a lovely carved larchwood box under the window and other boxes and baskets on shelves along one side of the space. Woven hangings cover the wicker on two walls. The room has its own small hearth in the center, and a table with two benches is nearby. A gaming board with stone pieces sits on the table, waiting, it seems, for the room’s occupant to return.

Spusscio watches me with a curious look. “Do you like this room?” he asks.

“It is lovely. I’ve never been in such a fine place.” I remove Ryamen’s cloak and lay it on the bed. I would like to lie down on those soft skins and sleep the rest of the day away. “But this is someone else’s room. Is it all right for me to be here?”

“She doesn’t need it now.” His voice is sad.

I remember the story of Cara and Miquain. “Surely I shouldn’t be in here.”

“It is safe for you.”

“Will the chief mind?”

“No, he’ll understand why I’ve put you here. I’ll come for you when he returns from dinner.”

“Is there …” I hesitate. It is rude for a guest to ask
for things, I know. And I have no idea what my status is. I may be a prisoner here. Still, the mention of dinner brings sharp hunger pangs. “Might I have something to eat?”

“I’m sorry, lady. Stumbling into you like that has driven sensible thoughts from my mind. I will bring you food at once.” He moves to the door, then turns. “And would you like to wash?”

“Oh, please. I’ve been in a cave and a cage and a barrow. I’m so dirty I don’t even feel human.”

He smiles. “Well, there are those who say you aren’t human.”

I sigh. “I hope you’ll explain that.”

“When you’ve washed and dined, we will sit with Belert and talk. We have much to ask you, and we’ll try to answer your questions.” He goes out and closes the door firmly behind him.

I walk around the chamber, admiring things. There is a mirror on the top shelf, and I hold it to the light. My face is filthy, my hair straggles around it, and my tunic is torn and bloody at the shoulder. The wound on my forehead looks healed. If I can wash away the dried blood and dirt, it will hardly show. I put the mirror back and look down at my legs. My trousers and boots are caked with mud, and my tunic is almost as bad.

There is a noise outside the entrance. Spusscio speaks quietly. “Can you open the door?”

He brings a kettle of steaming water and a large basin and sets them on the floor. “I’ll be back with cold
water. I don’t want the servants to know you are here, so I’ll get it myself.”

When he returns, he carries a bucket of cold water with a ladle in it and a bundle of scrubbing twigs wrapped in a linen towel. He sets the cold water beside the basin and puts the towel and twigs on the table. “I’ll get the fire going for you.”

He leaves for a moment and returns with a handful of blazing twigs. After he has lit the kindling and laid on logs from a pile in the corner, he straightens up and gestures toward the larchwood box and the containers on the shelves. “You will find clean clothes in those.”

When the door shuts behind Spusscio, I strip off my dirty things and step into the basin. I dip the ladle first into the cold water, then the hot, and pour the mixture over my body. When I’m wet enough, I scrub the soapwort twigs into a lather on my skin and rinse with more clear, warm water.

The basin is full long before I’m finished. I peer out the window and see nothing but the back rampart wall and a clump of shrubs. I dump the dirty water over the bushes and return to my bath. I savor the feel of clean water coursing over my skin with each ladleful. Finally, with both kettle and bucket empty, I rub myself dry with the strip of linen.

The dwarf seemed certain I could borrow clean clothes, but I hesitate before the box. At last I lift the lid. I find a clean undershift and pull it on thankfully. The fresh linen is finely woven and feels smooth
against my body. I lift a tunic and see a familiar fabric under it.

I packed my girdle in my saddle bundle at Dun Dreug. It should be with Rol in the stable—if he is still there. It could not be here, deep in someone else’s storage chest, but what is this?

I pull the embroidered cloth out of the chest and smooth the fabric with my hand, feeling the silky raised needlework. The pattern is similar to mine, but there are differences. Though the colors are alike, the flowers are not the same. There is a stain on the front of this one, and the ties are frayed. I study it carefully; it is soft with wear. I have worn mine only a few times.

I feel a shiver down my body as I hold the piece. It’s not really so strange that something Moren brought me from Dun Alyn looks like another piece of fabric here, but I have an eerie feeling about it.

I look through the clothes and find a woolen dress in a beautiful shade of green. I pull it over my head and tie it with the girdle. There are slippers on one of the shelves, and I tug them on, then attack my hair with a sturdy bone comb.

When I hear Spusscio at the door again, I hurry to help him in. He has a large bread trencher piled with slices of beef and root vegetables in one hand and balances a small loaf of wheat bread on a flagon of ale with the other. He places the lot on the table and puts the dirk from his belt beside the food.

I am so hungry I barely remember to thank him
before I start eating. He lifts the basin of dirty water but stands staring at me instead of leaving.

I swallow a large chunk of beef and ask, “What’s wrong? I’m sorry if my manners offend you. I haven’t had good food for days.”

He shakes his head. “You could be Miquain. You must be Miquain, though I know you are not.”

I remember the bard’s story. “Miquain? Cara and Belert’s daughter?”

“Aye. You look just like her.”

I look around. “Is this her room?”

He nods.

I swallow some of the ale. “Perhaps I should not have put on her clothes.” I look with distaste toward the pile of soiled things I’ve removed.

“I will tell him I told you to. He won’t mind.” He balances the basin and moves to the door. I rise to open it, then close it tightly after him.

I finish the meat and vegetables and, when the loaf of fine wheat bread is gone, even eat most of the coarse, crusty trencher. I am swallowing the last of the ale when the door bursts open.

Chief Belert steps into the room.

I
LEAP TO MY FEET, WIPING AT MY GREASY MOUTH AND
hands with the linen towel left from my bath.

He stands without moving, staring at me. Finally he speaks in a soft voice. “Miquain? Is it you, then?”

The look on his face moves me to tears. I want at this moment to be Miquain, to do anything or be anyone that might bring comfort to this tragic man. But I can only speak as gently as possible. “I’m sorry to startle you, sir. I am not Miquain.”

“You are not Miquain?” He looks old, bewildered.

I cannot check my tears. I swipe at my face with the towel. “I am Ilena. Remember? I was in the hall three nights ago.”

He makes an effort to recover himself. “Yes. Ogern sent you to the grove. He said wolves broke in and took you.”