Rowan had finally cried herself inside out and was sleeping in a heap in the middle of the bed. Ivy didn’t dare move her, in case she woke again and cried some more. She was sick of the sound of the child sobbing. If she was ever forced to bear children, she would farm them out to somebody with much more patience than she had. What irrational little beasts they were, so selfish and one-eyed.
Ivy lurked near the door to their room at the inn. The first day of travel had gone well: no rain, not too many hills and valleys to negotiate. Sighere had said barely a dozen words to her and most of the time she simply pretended he wasn’t there. Rowan had cried the whole way, of course, but as Ivy had no sympathy, the pain was only on her ears, not in her heart.
She ventured out to the landing and peered over the railing. From here, she could see the entranceway to the inn. Men coming and going. She could hear their voices from the alehouse. They laughed and shouted, they talked in low voices, they argued. Men. Dozens and dozens of them. And here she was, stuck in a room with the baby. She imagined herself descending the stairs with her shining fair curls catching the lamplight, her white bosom swelling invitingly from the low front on her gown. How their heads would turn.
Ivy retreated back into her room. It was dimly lit by greasy candles in metal sconces, and smelled of old sweat and damp wool. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be around William Dartwood and…No, she didn’t. Already, she had grown beyond wanting William Dartwood. Her infatuation with Heath had finished off her desire for anyone back home. But she couldn’t have Heath. The thought made her angry and sad all at once. She’d never much liked any of her sisters, apart from Willow. Ash, she supposed, was kind enough. But Iron-Tits was an arrogant thug, and Rose…well, Rose had Heath. That was reason enough to hate her.
But Ivy would get over Heath. Somehow. Though it would help if she could get downstairs and flirt with some other men.
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 First Folk, with the typical ginger hair, green eyes, and freckled white skin. Rowan had clearly never seen First Folk 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 First Folk. There are small tribes of them around here. You don’t tend to see them in Nettlechester or Almissia.”
“What’s First Folk?”
“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 First Folk lived here. The first people. They were weak and disorganized and now there aren’t so many left.” Ivy smiled. “They are still weak and disorganized. 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 Athelrick 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 ramble, 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 toward 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 stronghold for three years. And 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 overgrowing 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 Nettlechester 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 important, 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 realized 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 kept her head down and kept moving toward the guesthouse. The sooner this damned journey was over, the better.
The entrance to Folkenham was almost as impressive as the entrance to Blickstow. Two tall, carved pillars stood either side of the gate, and the road up the hill was paved in pale-gray flagstones that rang when the horse’s hooves struck them, but the gate was smaller than Blickstow’s, the wood darker, and the guards’ uniforms a dull gray. 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.
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-gray 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 Ivy deeply.
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 don’t believe we’ve 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 farther 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 Almissia 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.
Traveling had exhausted Ivy. She slept deeply, heavy and soft, far beneath dreams: the kind of sleep one only achieves after hard labor or good works. Then a thin cry needled through the layers.
Ivy struggled to open her eyes, didn’t recognize where she was, couldn’t place the cry. Then it came again. She was in Rose’s bower in Folkenham and Rowan was having a nightmare next to her.
“Shhh,” 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 on to sleep.
Rowan woke, looked at Ivy, and said, “Where’s Mama?”
“Mama will be back soon. I’m here with you now.”
Rowan’s mouth turned upside down. Her bottom lip pushed farther and farther out, and then she took a deep breath and began to sob.
“Shhh,” Ivy said again, and moved to pick her up.
Rowan shrieked and flung her hand away, kicking her legs. Her foot caught Ivy under the ribs, knocking the wind out of her.
“You little brat!” Ivy spat.
“I want Mama!” Rowan screamed.
Ivy leapt out of bed, fingers itching to smack her chubby white thigh. “There’s no need to kick me.”
But Rowan was incoherent with tears and shrieks.
Ivy wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to go back to sleep, but Rowan was winding herself up tighter and tighter. Ivy went to the shutter and opened it a little way. Perhaps if Wengest heard, he might come to settle her down. That was probably what Rowan wanted: one of her parents. She barely knew Ivy.
Ivy waited, but nobody came. She went to the door and opened it. The chill of midnight skulked in, making her hug her shift tight around her body. She took a half step out onto the dewy grass, peering toward Wengest’s bower. She was sure she saw a finger of light under the shutter. Rowan’s sobbing intensified as the cold reached her. Surely Wengest would hear. And if he heard, he would surely come.
Then the door to his bower opened and Ivy shrank back inside. She didn’t want it to be obvious she’d tried to wake him. She heard a voice. A soft female voice. Curious, she leaned out again.
A woman was leaving Wengest’s bower, her face turned away from Ivy. She said something inaudible, then turned and hurried back toward the town. Ivy recognized her as the serving woman who had brought her meal that evening.
Ivy realized her mouth was agape and shut it, withdrawing inside. She closed the door and pressed her back against it. Wengest was tupping the serving girl. Rose was being tupped by Heath. And neither of them knew about the other. Why, Ivy knew more about them than they knew about themselves.
Rowan was still crying. Ivy sighed and went to her. “Please. Will you stop? It’s very late and I’m tired.”
“No!” she shrieked.
The door opened and Ivy turned to see Rowan’s nurse standing there.
“You heard?” Ivy said.
“Half of Nettlechester heard.” The woman came over and forcibly flipped Rowan onto her front. “Here, this always works if you can get her to lie still.”
Rowan wriggled violently, but one firm touch of Nurse’s hands on her shoulders and she started to relax.
“Hush, hush,” Nurse said, rubbing circles on her back.
The crying continued but was, at least, muffled by the blankets.
“I thought Wengest might come if he heard,” Ivy said.
“The king? He doesn’t attend to children.”
“Too busy attending to somebody else.”
Nurse didn’t meet her eye. “He’s a man. Men must find their pleasure or they bend out of shape.”
A violent stab of unpleasant feeling landed in Ivy’s guts. She considered it carefully and realized it was jealousy. Wengest, the king of Nettlechester, with his gold rings and his fine dyed clothes, was being enjoyed by a servant.
Nurse lowered her voice. “Don’t tell your sister. It will only make her sad.”
“But surely she should know if he loves another—”
“Love? Love has nothing to do with it. Do you think the king of Nettlechester would love somebody as low as her? A highborn man such as him could only love a woman of equal birth.”
And Ivy thought: I am of equal birth.
“Forget what you have seen,” Nurse said. “I won’t speak of it again.”
“Nor will I,” said Ivy. But she could think about it as much as she liked.