The Handmaid's Veil
Title: The Handmaid's Veil
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Pairing: Tristan and Isolde
Rating: R
Warnings: canonical dubious consent issues.
Summary: One beautiful girl, one ugly one, love, duty, honor, and lies.
Author's note: Written for Karennina in Yuletide '06. Thanks to sophiap and antosha_c.
No man wants to be a slave, but freedom doesn’t fill your belly, nor those of your children. The man who stepped forward had the hollow-eyed look of the hungry. He knelt at his lady’s feet, and laid his head in her hands, giving himself into her service. And bondsman makes bondswoman, and so too followed his wife, and their children. The son was about ten summers, well-grown, strong. But the daughter kept her face down, her headrail wrapped close round it, half-obscuring it. She didn’t remove it as her mother had when she, too, laid her head in the hands of her lady, binding herself to her.
Afterwards the seneschal spoke to them. The family would continue working the land, but the daughter offered her spindle up, wordlessly. The seneschal raised one brow at the fineness and quality of the thread. “She’ll be put to work with the Lady’s other spinsters, and eat and sleep within the bailey,” said the seneschal. They could always use another spinster in the women’s room.
A muttered thanks came from the girl, head bent, veil wrapped tight. She aroused the curiosity of the man. “Look at me, girl,” he said. She did so. The headrail had been wrapped strangely, covering half her face. He was intrigued. “Take your veil off,” he said. “I want to see your face.”
She hesitated. “Go on, Brangwyna,” her mother said with a sigh. The girl tucked spindle and distaff under her arm and unwound her headcloth.
“Mother of God!” the seneschal said inadvertently. The girl turned red as if slapped, inhaling in almost a sob. Something had tried to rip her face off. Old scars, pale now, but the eye socket on her right side looked slightly crumpled, the right eye milky and walleyed, the eyebrow twisted, the forehead above lumpy with healed marks. She would have been pretty otherwise, pale hair, blue eyes, and regular features.
“A dog got her when she was barely walking, my lord,” her mother volunteered in a tight whisper.
He nodded. “You can cover yourself again, child,” he said, and sighed. It really didn’t matter...she spun better than some full-grown women. And an ugly girl wouldn’t cause trouble among the men when she grew up.
* * *
By the time the weather warmed and it was possible to move the work outside, Brangwyna had grown accustomed to her role within the large household of Queen Isolde. She had a pallet all to herself there and was praised for the quality of her thread. She was one of the women who spun warp threads, and took shy quiet pleasure in the quality of the linen and wool that was given her to work, and in clothes that fit and kept her warm. She never complained about the plain food and ale that was the spinsters’ portion.
When they resettled themselves underneath the open-sided shed that let the spring breezes blow through, she realized there was no longer a corner to put her blind side against and hide. And, indeed, soon she was seen, and assessed. She met the eyes with hers, shoving the fear down. She knew her ugliness well, but her thread was good, and she’d match it with any one in there for quality.
“Come here, child,” the queen’s voice said. She often sat with the spinsters, oversight that was spoken of approvingly. There was no waste or idle time here... hands stayed busy, even if tongues were flying, and often she brought a harper in to make music for them while they worked, or the women all sang.
Brangwyna came, head up. Her veil was wrapped to conceal the blind eye, and her gaze up at the queen after her reverence was made was confident.
“I remember you,” the queen said. “Your father placed his head in my hands this December last, did he not?”
“Aye, my lady,” Brangwyna said.
“Well, child, I have another task in mind for you. You’re tidy and neat-handed, clean and sober. My daughter needs a maid, and you and she are much of an age. And perhaps,” the queen added with a bit of a laugh, “you can improve her spinning.”
* * *
Brangwyna was combing Isolde’s hair. It was true gold, a hint of copper to it like the heavy gold ornaments in the little box on the table, and reached her hips when she stood. She and Isolde were sixteen now, and close as sisters. With Isolde, alone, Brangwyna would tease and laugh. They slept in the same bed. Brangwyna knew it was a silent guarantee of Isolde’s maidenhood, but she did not mind being the guard. She would die for Isolde.
She separated her hair and began braiding it in one long plait for bed. It was thick as her wrist, the girl’s greatest beauty, they said. But they missed so much...they missed eyes the color of a stormy sea, grey tonight as stone, the dimple in one cheek when she was amused, the softness of her skin, the beauty of her movements, the sweetness of her soul.
“Do you ever think about marriage?” asked Isolde suddenly.
“Yours or mine?” Brangwyna replied, shifting back as the braid grew.
“Yours.”
“I’ll never marry.”
“Well...everyone gets married!” Isolde said. She started to turn her head and then subsided at a tug on her braid.
“Not someone like me,” Brangwyna said. “No one wants an ugly woman unless she has money. You, though, you’re beautiful, and a king’s daughter.”
Isolde merely nodded. There was a new tension in her shoulders.
“Lord Dunchad brought his lady to court today,” Isolde finally said. “She sat with us while it finished. There is a bruise on her cheek.”
“No one could mistreat you,” Brangwyna reassured her. “Insult to you would be insult to your father, and cause for war. And you’re lovely, and...I’m sure he’ll be charmed. Whoever he is.”
“Whoever, yes...” Isolde said, and sighed. “There’s an emissary here from King Mark, in Cornwall. “ She made a face. “He’s old enough to be my father!”
“Well,” Brangwyna said, tying off her braid and leaning close, hands on her shoulders. “I’ve heard that doesn’t matter. Duke Cahir is grey, but I’ve heard rumors....”She put her head close to Isolde’s ear, and whispered the rest.
They both giggled, blushing. Isolde shivered. “It’s cold, Brangwyna, have you put the footwarmer in the bed yet?”
“Not yet...” she answered, fetching the stone from the hearth and wrapping it in cloth before she tucked it down at the foot of the bed in the corner. Then she unlaced Isolde’s bilaut and tucked her into bed before undoing her own dress and sliding in beside her.
Isolde was warm and sweet-smelling. One soft hand reached out and wrapped itself round Brangwyna’s waist, and Isolde snuggled into Brangwyne’s back. Brangwyna was glad for the darkness, for her face burnt, and heat mounted in her body. It took all her will not to turn and touch Isolde, to kiss her like a squire his lady. But if she did, Isolde would send her away. No, far better to grit her teeth and wait while the fire inside burnt down, to recite her prayers under her breath. She was ugly, and no one would want her kisses. At length, she slept.
* * *
It was official. Isolde was to marry Mark of Cornwall, and Tristram, the king’s nephew and champion, had arrived as head of the delegation to bring her to him. Women thronged the chamber, cooing over and packing the bride-goods, the finely made gifts from the lords of Ireland to deck their princess for her wedding.Amidst all this, a summons came for Brangwyna. Alone. She left Isolde as someone held up a roll of scarlet and the room gasped at its beauty, closing the door on speculations if it would be well to make up a gown before she went.
“Ah, good, here you are, Brangwyna.”
“Majesty”, she said, dipping in a brief curtsey.
“I called you away from the packing to tell you that you will be the only maid going with Isolde to Cornwall. I insisted. More, the marriage agreement says that you will stay with her until you decide to leave her.” The queen smiled. “I remember what comfort my Hilde was to me when I came here. I would have my daughter given such support too.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Brangwyna said, fervently. She hadn’t heard, and to know, from the Queen’s own lips, comforted her.
The queen was frowning. “There is one more thing. You’re young, but I trust you. I...did not have a happy marriage with King Lorcan.” She bit her lip and looked down. “Looking back, the blame was equally apportioned between he and I. But I would have happiness for my daughter. Love smooths the roughnesses of marriage, and comforts the fears. So I have found someone to make this,” she said, and produced a small flask from the folds of her dress. It was barely enough for two cups. “I am assured that if this is added to the bridal cup, love will blossom between those who drink, true love, life-long.” She looked Brangwyna full in the face. “I charge you to see that this goes into the bridal cup, and make sure they both drink of it before the bedding.”
“I will, my lady,” said Brangwyna. “I would have nothing but her happiness.”
The Queen smiled. “Run along now, child, and make sure everything is done properly.”
* * *
The ship lurched, and Brangwyna shut her eyes. Isolde was fine, at least. But she’d already been ill once over the side of the ship, and had spent the rest of the time attempting not to be. She and Isolde were the only women on the ship, and so Isolde stayed with her. She’d cared for her tenderly, helping her to sip water, and curling up with her when she was racked with chills.
There was a tap at the door of their cabin. “Princess?” a voice inquired. Tristram poked his head in.
“Come in,” she said, rising from the bed and slipping her feet into her shoes. She’d laid down in her bilaut, but her veil lay to one side. Tristram averted his eyes from her long golden braids. Brangwyna approved mentally...he was a true gentleman. Isolde hastened to veil herself.
“I wanted to pass on, my lady, that the captain says the storm will be past by tomorrow. We’ll add on a day to our time, but we should have clear sailing from now on.” He looked past her and his eyes rested on Brangwyna in the bunk, seeing her clear misery. “If it’s not presuming of me, I’ve a remedy for sea-sickness... would you like it for your maid?”
“Yes, please,” Isolde said. He smiled and withdrew. When he returned, he said, “This needs dissolved in wine...have you any?”
Isolde lifted a small pitcher from its nest of fabric between two trunks. She shook it and said, “Not much...”
“Only a few swallows are needed,” he said. She poured some wine into a small beaker, and he stirred in a powder he took from a tiny fold of parchment in his belt-pouch. Brangwyna drank it eagerly. To be free of the nasty swaying and sickness!
He sat and spoke to Isolde of the court she would be joining. Brangwyna listened too. It was important to know. And as she listened, her stomach calmed. Her eyelids drooped. She quietly fell asleep.
Something woke her. It wasn’t a sound she’d heard often, but she knew it well enough. Rustling linen, skin on skin, the soft breathing and hushed cries of a man and a woman coupling. A man and a woman! Here! Together!
She sat up, seeing in the fading light from the candle the golden locks of Isolde, down free, half veiling the man who startled at her movement... the king’s nephew. And on the table, the little jug that she’d kept hidden in the chest, its stopper out.
Brangwyna lay down and wept.
“Oh, my dear one, don’t cry!” Isolde said. “It’s all right, it’s all right! We love each other, my dear girl. Shh. It will be all right.”
“I failed,” Brangwyne said dully. She couldn’t look at Isolde, beautiful Isolde, glowing like sunlight in the dark room.
“We can’t argue with fate,” a male voice said. Tristram pulled his tunic on, his dark locks still mussed. “God surely arranged this, for I wasn’t originally to come to fetch Isolde.” His voice made an endearment of her name.
“God surely, for we but sipped the wine and gazed at each other, and I knew there’d never be another man for me.” Her gaze at Tristram was full of amazed joy.
“And what of the wedding?” Brangwyna said. “There are treaties based on this! She cannot just go off and wed you, pretty as you are. You may have abandoned your duty, but will you condemn us all to war?”
There was a pause. Had she overstepped?
No. “She’s right,” Tristan said slowly. He sank to a seat on a box. “God knows it tears my heart to think of it, but you must wed him.”
Isolde nodded, and then another thought came to her. “And....Oh, God, he’ll know I come a woman to his bed!”
“That’s a problem,” Tristan said, rubbing his chin. “Mark’s no fool... he’ll expect to feel that, and there’s nothing that feels like it. And we must have you wedded. As your girl said, treaties depend on it.”
Isolde sighed, and said, “There must be a way.”
* * *
Fear coiled leaden in her belly. The room was still warm, though the fire had burnt down. The linen sheets rasped against her skin, the fine woolen blankets of Isolde’s bride gifts above her, the room dark, dead dark. Dark moon out, the candles pinched out, and Brangwyna was waiting in the darkness. She faced towards the wall, lying on the blind side, fair hair spilling down, outside the blanket. In the faint light it shone almost as lovely as Isolde’s. When the door banged, a noise of men laughing and whooping outside, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“An’ she’s mine, so get out and go drink yourselves blind, you damned dogs!” a male voice said. The door slammed, and she heard the rustle of him looking for a candle, then giving it up and undressing in the darkness. And suddenly he was there, stinking mouth on hers, heavy hands on her skin. It took all her will to submit, to keep the screaming inside. She thought of Isolde, lovely Isolde, and it kept her there in the moment she would have run. She did not know it would hurt like that.
She waited til he’d fallen over to one side and was snoring, just breathing, trying not to sob. Then she got out of bed, and found her shift and dress by touch. She pulled on her shift, wiped her face with the sleeve, and moved on icy feet to the door of the little room where she would sleep, and where the trunks of fabric that were part of the dower were stored, safe from pilfering...and where Isolde had spent the first part of the night.
She opened the door carefully, and found they were curled together, kissing lazily. Tristram noticed first, stiffening and starting to sit up, then recognizing her. His eyes slid from her face, and she felt the old feelings rise up, curdling in her throat, burning in her good eye. She’d not cry, not now. This pain was an old friend.
His movement roused Isolde, and she turned, looking over at Brangwyna with nervous, wide eyes. “He’s asleep?”
“Snoring,” Tristan said, grinning. “I’d know that sound anywhere, and by the sound of it he’s drunk enough mead to keep him snoring til Tierce at the least. Go on, my sweet.”
He swung out of the bed and was dressing rapidly. “Let me know when we can meet safely again, beloved.”
“I will,” she said, rising naked from the bed to kiss him farewell. Once the door shut behind him, she picked her own shift up off the chest nearest the door and headed into the bedroom. She glowed, bright with joy and lovemaking. The door shut behind her, and the candle guttered in the draught.
Brangwyna numbly reached for a cloth, wiping the king’s seed from her thighs. There was blood on the cloth, and she ached deep within. She put out the candle and lay down in the bed, curled up, and tried to believe the pain was only that of her lost virginity, only that, and nothing more. Isolde’s face, bright with joy, burned in her mind, and she was wrapped in the blanket of the scent of their lovemaking. She turned her face into the pillow, and wept.
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Pairing: Tristan and Isolde
Rating: R
Warnings: canonical dubious consent issues.
Summary: One beautiful girl, one ugly one, love, duty, honor, and lies.
Author's note: Written for Karennina in Yuletide '06. Thanks to sophiap and antosha_c.
No man wants to be a slave, but freedom doesn’t fill your belly, nor those of your children. The man who stepped forward had the hollow-eyed look of the hungry. He knelt at his lady’s feet, and laid his head in her hands, giving himself into her service. And bondsman makes bondswoman, and so too followed his wife, and their children. The son was about ten summers, well-grown, strong. But the daughter kept her face down, her headrail wrapped close round it, half-obscuring it. She didn’t remove it as her mother had when she, too, laid her head in the hands of her lady, binding herself to her.
Afterwards the seneschal spoke to them. The family would continue working the land, but the daughter offered her spindle up, wordlessly. The seneschal raised one brow at the fineness and quality of the thread. “She’ll be put to work with the Lady’s other spinsters, and eat and sleep within the bailey,” said the seneschal. They could always use another spinster in the women’s room.
A muttered thanks came from the girl, head bent, veil wrapped tight. She aroused the curiosity of the man. “Look at me, girl,” he said. She did so. The headrail had been wrapped strangely, covering half her face. He was intrigued. “Take your veil off,” he said. “I want to see your face.”
She hesitated. “Go on, Brangwyna,” her mother said with a sigh. The girl tucked spindle and distaff under her arm and unwound her headcloth.
“Mother of God!” the seneschal said inadvertently. The girl turned red as if slapped, inhaling in almost a sob. Something had tried to rip her face off. Old scars, pale now, but the eye socket on her right side looked slightly crumpled, the right eye milky and walleyed, the eyebrow twisted, the forehead above lumpy with healed marks. She would have been pretty otherwise, pale hair, blue eyes, and regular features.
“A dog got her when she was barely walking, my lord,” her mother volunteered in a tight whisper.
He nodded. “You can cover yourself again, child,” he said, and sighed. It really didn’t matter...she spun better than some full-grown women. And an ugly girl wouldn’t cause trouble among the men when she grew up.
* * *
By the time the weather warmed and it was possible to move the work outside, Brangwyna had grown accustomed to her role within the large household of Queen Isolde. She had a pallet all to herself there and was praised for the quality of her thread. She was one of the women who spun warp threads, and took shy quiet pleasure in the quality of the linen and wool that was given her to work, and in clothes that fit and kept her warm. She never complained about the plain food and ale that was the spinsters’ portion.
When they resettled themselves underneath the open-sided shed that let the spring breezes blow through, she realized there was no longer a corner to put her blind side against and hide. And, indeed, soon she was seen, and assessed. She met the eyes with hers, shoving the fear down. She knew her ugliness well, but her thread was good, and she’d match it with any one in there for quality.
“Come here, child,” the queen’s voice said. She often sat with the spinsters, oversight that was spoken of approvingly. There was no waste or idle time here... hands stayed busy, even if tongues were flying, and often she brought a harper in to make music for them while they worked, or the women all sang.
Brangwyna came, head up. Her veil was wrapped to conceal the blind eye, and her gaze up at the queen after her reverence was made was confident.
“I remember you,” the queen said. “Your father placed his head in my hands this December last, did he not?”
“Aye, my lady,” Brangwyna said.
“Well, child, I have another task in mind for you. You’re tidy and neat-handed, clean and sober. My daughter needs a maid, and you and she are much of an age. And perhaps,” the queen added with a bit of a laugh, “you can improve her spinning.”
* * *
Brangwyna was combing Isolde’s hair. It was true gold, a hint of copper to it like the heavy gold ornaments in the little box on the table, and reached her hips when she stood. She and Isolde were sixteen now, and close as sisters. With Isolde, alone, Brangwyna would tease and laugh. They slept in the same bed. Brangwyna knew it was a silent guarantee of Isolde’s maidenhood, but she did not mind being the guard. She would die for Isolde.
She separated her hair and began braiding it in one long plait for bed. It was thick as her wrist, the girl’s greatest beauty, they said. But they missed so much...they missed eyes the color of a stormy sea, grey tonight as stone, the dimple in one cheek when she was amused, the softness of her skin, the beauty of her movements, the sweetness of her soul.
“Do you ever think about marriage?” asked Isolde suddenly.
“Yours or mine?” Brangwyna replied, shifting back as the braid grew.
“Yours.”
“I’ll never marry.”
“Well...everyone gets married!” Isolde said. She started to turn her head and then subsided at a tug on her braid.
“Not someone like me,” Brangwyna said. “No one wants an ugly woman unless she has money. You, though, you’re beautiful, and a king’s daughter.”
Isolde merely nodded. There was a new tension in her shoulders.
“Lord Dunchad brought his lady to court today,” Isolde finally said. “She sat with us while it finished. There is a bruise on her cheek.”
“No one could mistreat you,” Brangwyna reassured her. “Insult to you would be insult to your father, and cause for war. And you’re lovely, and...I’m sure he’ll be charmed. Whoever he is.”
“Whoever, yes...” Isolde said, and sighed. “There’s an emissary here from King Mark, in Cornwall. “ She made a face. “He’s old enough to be my father!”
“Well,” Brangwyna said, tying off her braid and leaning close, hands on her shoulders. “I’ve heard that doesn’t matter. Duke Cahir is grey, but I’ve heard rumors....”She put her head close to Isolde’s ear, and whispered the rest.
They both giggled, blushing. Isolde shivered. “It’s cold, Brangwyna, have you put the footwarmer in the bed yet?”
“Not yet...” she answered, fetching the stone from the hearth and wrapping it in cloth before she tucked it down at the foot of the bed in the corner. Then she unlaced Isolde’s bilaut and tucked her into bed before undoing her own dress and sliding in beside her.
Isolde was warm and sweet-smelling. One soft hand reached out and wrapped itself round Brangwyna’s waist, and Isolde snuggled into Brangwyne’s back. Brangwyna was glad for the darkness, for her face burnt, and heat mounted in her body. It took all her will not to turn and touch Isolde, to kiss her like a squire his lady. But if she did, Isolde would send her away. No, far better to grit her teeth and wait while the fire inside burnt down, to recite her prayers under her breath. She was ugly, and no one would want her kisses. At length, she slept.
* * *
It was official. Isolde was to marry Mark of Cornwall, and Tristram, the king’s nephew and champion, had arrived as head of the delegation to bring her to him. Women thronged the chamber, cooing over and packing the bride-goods, the finely made gifts from the lords of Ireland to deck their princess for her wedding.Amidst all this, a summons came for Brangwyna. Alone. She left Isolde as someone held up a roll of scarlet and the room gasped at its beauty, closing the door on speculations if it would be well to make up a gown before she went.
“Ah, good, here you are, Brangwyna.”
“Majesty”, she said, dipping in a brief curtsey.
“I called you away from the packing to tell you that you will be the only maid going with Isolde to Cornwall. I insisted. More, the marriage agreement says that you will stay with her until you decide to leave her.” The queen smiled. “I remember what comfort my Hilde was to me when I came here. I would have my daughter given such support too.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Brangwyna said, fervently. She hadn’t heard, and to know, from the Queen’s own lips, comforted her.
The queen was frowning. “There is one more thing. You’re young, but I trust you. I...did not have a happy marriage with King Lorcan.” She bit her lip and looked down. “Looking back, the blame was equally apportioned between he and I. But I would have happiness for my daughter. Love smooths the roughnesses of marriage, and comforts the fears. So I have found someone to make this,” she said, and produced a small flask from the folds of her dress. It was barely enough for two cups. “I am assured that if this is added to the bridal cup, love will blossom between those who drink, true love, life-long.” She looked Brangwyna full in the face. “I charge you to see that this goes into the bridal cup, and make sure they both drink of it before the bedding.”
“I will, my lady,” said Brangwyna. “I would have nothing but her happiness.”
The Queen smiled. “Run along now, child, and make sure everything is done properly.”
* * *
The ship lurched, and Brangwyna shut her eyes. Isolde was fine, at least. But she’d already been ill once over the side of the ship, and had spent the rest of the time attempting not to be. She and Isolde were the only women on the ship, and so Isolde stayed with her. She’d cared for her tenderly, helping her to sip water, and curling up with her when she was racked with chills.
There was a tap at the door of their cabin. “Princess?” a voice inquired. Tristram poked his head in.
“Come in,” she said, rising from the bed and slipping her feet into her shoes. She’d laid down in her bilaut, but her veil lay to one side. Tristram averted his eyes from her long golden braids. Brangwyna approved mentally...he was a true gentleman. Isolde hastened to veil herself.
“I wanted to pass on, my lady, that the captain says the storm will be past by tomorrow. We’ll add on a day to our time, but we should have clear sailing from now on.” He looked past her and his eyes rested on Brangwyna in the bunk, seeing her clear misery. “If it’s not presuming of me, I’ve a remedy for sea-sickness... would you like it for your maid?”
“Yes, please,” Isolde said. He smiled and withdrew. When he returned, he said, “This needs dissolved in wine...have you any?”
Isolde lifted a small pitcher from its nest of fabric between two trunks. She shook it and said, “Not much...”
“Only a few swallows are needed,” he said. She poured some wine into a small beaker, and he stirred in a powder he took from a tiny fold of parchment in his belt-pouch. Brangwyna drank it eagerly. To be free of the nasty swaying and sickness!
He sat and spoke to Isolde of the court she would be joining. Brangwyna listened too. It was important to know. And as she listened, her stomach calmed. Her eyelids drooped. She quietly fell asleep.
Something woke her. It wasn’t a sound she’d heard often, but she knew it well enough. Rustling linen, skin on skin, the soft breathing and hushed cries of a man and a woman coupling. A man and a woman! Here! Together!
She sat up, seeing in the fading light from the candle the golden locks of Isolde, down free, half veiling the man who startled at her movement... the king’s nephew. And on the table, the little jug that she’d kept hidden in the chest, its stopper out.
Brangwyna lay down and wept.
“Oh, my dear one, don’t cry!” Isolde said. “It’s all right, it’s all right! We love each other, my dear girl. Shh. It will be all right.”
“I failed,” Brangwyne said dully. She couldn’t look at Isolde, beautiful Isolde, glowing like sunlight in the dark room.
“We can’t argue with fate,” a male voice said. Tristram pulled his tunic on, his dark locks still mussed. “God surely arranged this, for I wasn’t originally to come to fetch Isolde.” His voice made an endearment of her name.
“God surely, for we but sipped the wine and gazed at each other, and I knew there’d never be another man for me.” Her gaze at Tristram was full of amazed joy.
“And what of the wedding?” Brangwyna said. “There are treaties based on this! She cannot just go off and wed you, pretty as you are. You may have abandoned your duty, but will you condemn us all to war?”
There was a pause. Had she overstepped?
No. “She’s right,” Tristan said slowly. He sank to a seat on a box. “God knows it tears my heart to think of it, but you must wed him.”
Isolde nodded, and then another thought came to her. “And....Oh, God, he’ll know I come a woman to his bed!”
“That’s a problem,” Tristan said, rubbing his chin. “Mark’s no fool... he’ll expect to feel that, and there’s nothing that feels like it. And we must have you wedded. As your girl said, treaties depend on it.”
Isolde sighed, and said, “There must be a way.”
* * *
Fear coiled leaden in her belly. The room was still warm, though the fire had burnt down. The linen sheets rasped against her skin, the fine woolen blankets of Isolde’s bride gifts above her, the room dark, dead dark. Dark moon out, the candles pinched out, and Brangwyna was waiting in the darkness. She faced towards the wall, lying on the blind side, fair hair spilling down, outside the blanket. In the faint light it shone almost as lovely as Isolde’s. When the door banged, a noise of men laughing and whooping outside, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“An’ she’s mine, so get out and go drink yourselves blind, you damned dogs!” a male voice said. The door slammed, and she heard the rustle of him looking for a candle, then giving it up and undressing in the darkness. And suddenly he was there, stinking mouth on hers, heavy hands on her skin. It took all her will to submit, to keep the screaming inside. She thought of Isolde, lovely Isolde, and it kept her there in the moment she would have run. She did not know it would hurt like that.
She waited til he’d fallen over to one side and was snoring, just breathing, trying not to sob. Then she got out of bed, and found her shift and dress by touch. She pulled on her shift, wiped her face with the sleeve, and moved on icy feet to the door of the little room where she would sleep, and where the trunks of fabric that were part of the dower were stored, safe from pilfering...and where Isolde had spent the first part of the night.
She opened the door carefully, and found they were curled together, kissing lazily. Tristram noticed first, stiffening and starting to sit up, then recognizing her. His eyes slid from her face, and she felt the old feelings rise up, curdling in her throat, burning in her good eye. She’d not cry, not now. This pain was an old friend.
His movement roused Isolde, and she turned, looking over at Brangwyna with nervous, wide eyes. “He’s asleep?”
“Snoring,” Tristan said, grinning. “I’d know that sound anywhere, and by the sound of it he’s drunk enough mead to keep him snoring til Tierce at the least. Go on, my sweet.”
He swung out of the bed and was dressing rapidly. “Let me know when we can meet safely again, beloved.”
“I will,” she said, rising naked from the bed to kiss him farewell. Once the door shut behind him, she picked her own shift up off the chest nearest the door and headed into the bedroom. She glowed, bright with joy and lovemaking. The door shut behind her, and the candle guttered in the draught.
Brangwyna numbly reached for a cloth, wiping the king’s seed from her thighs. There was blood on the cloth, and she ached deep within. She put out the candle and lay down in the bed, curled up, and tried to believe the pain was only that of her lost virginity, only that, and nothing more. Isolde’s face, bright with joy, burned in her mind, and she was wrapped in the blanket of the scent of their lovemaking. She turned her face into the pillow, and wept.