something.â His eyes wandered to Rowan, to the small white flowers in her hair. âThat is all I shall say.â
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 Ãlmesse 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 Ãfenthenken and watch Nyll grow fatter and more officious.
âMama? Iâm still hungry.â
Rose turned to Rowan. The childâs face was awash in tears and snot. âYou mean youâre hungry again,â she said.
âYes,â she said with a solemn nod, âIâm hungry again.â
Rose glanced over her shoulder at Nyll. âI shanât need any of your trimartyr help to get pregnant yet, though I thank youfor thinking of me. I travel tomorrow to Blicstowe with Heath.â The words were round and full of promise on her tongue, like cool grapes in summer. âPerhaps when I get back you can pray to Maava that my husbandâs arrow finds its target more fruitfully.â
Nyll blushed.
She grabbed Rowanâs 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 Wengestâs wife was to breathe again. To breathe so at Heathâs 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. Wengestâs 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 Roseâs stomach grumble. A small feast, but a feast nonetheless, to celebrate the return of the kingâs nephew.
Only the kingâs nephew didnât 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 otherâs 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. Roseâs skin prickled.
Guilt, yes. She was always guilty. Wengest was a good man. She didnât 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 didnât recognise herself in the description. She didnât have a wandering gaze, nor a sick yearning for young men, nor a sexual appetite that couldnât 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 manâs story.
The meal was served. Still Heath didnât come. Rose ate without appetite, throwing food on top of hunger for reasons that were only practical. Her eyes travelled again and again