Daughters Of The Storm by Kim Wilkins Read Free Book Online

something.’ His eyes wandered to Rowan, to the small white flowers in her hair. ‘That is all I shall say.’
    Rose hid her amusement. How it must stick in his throat that one of her sisters was a common faith counsellor and that another was a famous soldier. Then her mouth turned bitter. It stuck in her own throat. She was nothing more than a peace-weaver, a way for Ælmesse and Netelchester to stop fighting long enough to secure the south of Thyrsland from raiders. A settlement so promised could not be unpromised without bloodshed. And so she was doomed to return to this chapel every day for Æfenthenken and watch Nyll grow fatter and more officious.
    â€˜Mama? I’m still hungry.’
    Rose turned to Rowan. The child’s face was awash in tears and snot. ‘You mean you’re hungry again,’ she said.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said with a solemn nod, ‘I’m hungry again.’
    Rose glanced over her shoulder at Nyll. ‘I shan’t need any of your trimartyr help to get pregnant yet, though I thank youfor thinking of me. I travel tomorrow to Blicstowe with Heath.’ The words were round and full of promise on her tongue, like cool grapes in summer. ‘Perhaps when I get back you can pray to Maava that my husband’s arrow finds its target more fruitfully.’
    Nyll blushed.
    She grabbed Rowan’s hand and headed out into the twilit evening. At the door to the hall, she caught herself: here she was looking forward to travelling to Blicstowe, and yet it was a journey to say goodbye to her father. But to be away from the dark tedium of life as King Wengest’s wife was to breathe again. To breathe so at Heath’s side was happiness, no matter through what sorrow it was won.

    By nightfall, the hall tables had been erected and a deer spitted over the hearthpit. Wengest’s thanes arrived with their wives, who crowded together at the lower table so the children could run about in the empty space at the far end of the hall. The smell of roasting meat made Rose’s stomach grumble. A small feast, but a feast nonetheless, to celebrate the return of the king’s nephew.
    Only the king’s nephew didn’t arrive.
    Rose kept her eyes on the entrance to the hall, her mind only a tenth on the mundane conversation of the other wives. Rowan played with another little girl. They plucked hairs out each other’s scalps, then pretended to spin them on sticks: laughter and tears in equal measure. The mead was sweet and spicy across her tongue, but failed to relax her. Travelling tale-tellers had arrived a week before, and Wengest invited them to perform. One played the harp, the other recited a story about brave deeds and shining treasures. Then the music became soft and sad, and they began a song about a faithless wife and her cuckolded husband. Rose’s skin prickled.
    Guilt, yes. She was always guilty. Wengest was a good man. She didn’t love him, but that was not his fault and he did deserve love. But it was fear that truly haunted her: fear she would be found out. She glanced at Rowan, firelight in her hair. The little girl loved Wengest so much. For Rose to be with Heath, Wengest would have to be out of their lives. Such an unhappiness to wish upon a child.
    The song continued. Faithless wives were a common theme for tale-tellers and balladeers. And yet Rose didn’t recognise herself in the description. She didn’t have a wandering gaze, nor a sick yearning for young men, nor a sexual appetite that couldn’t be fulfilled. She was simply a woman who had unexpectedly fallen in love with the wrong man, and love was lord of everyone. The affair, experienced from the inside, was honest and beautiful and completely real. Not a dark stain on a pure man’s story.
    The meal was served. Still Heath didn’t come. Rose ate without appetite, throwing food on top of hunger for reasons that were only practical. Her eyes travelled again and again