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“Isla,” Baric said, shaking her arm. “This is a princess, not a bitch.”
“She is what she is,” Isla said. “It was another miserable princess who wounded my poor right eye and thus I have to wear this patch. It makes me look interesting and mysterious, but still I would like the use of both my eyes. This princess is a bitch. I know it.”
The bitch. Ragnor nearly burst with pleasure. This Isla was smart and big and he liked big women, at least he did now that he’d seen her and heard her insult Chessa. He also liked that patch over her right eye. He wondered what the eye looked like without the patch.
“What were you doing in the market when Baric came upon you?” Chessa said.
The woman shrugged, not looking at Chessa, her one good eye still trained on Ragnor. “I make the finest mead in all of York. I was selling it in the market when Baric came to have a cup to rest his throat. He drank it and swooned. He begged me to stay with him. I like a man with a lot of hair, particularly a thick beard and handfuls of it on his back. That his head is naked bothers me not at all.”
“Thus,” Baric said, running his long slender fingers through his beard, “I sing to her and she makes me mead and threads her fingers through the hair on my back.”
“Mead,” Ragnor said, his eyes lighting with hope. “Does she really make it well?”
“She is an angel,” Baric said. “Now, my lord, I have come to teach you another love poem.”
Ragnor said, “I haven’t any hair on my back. Will that make her dislike me?”
“Nay, my lord. Once you sing for her, she will love you for yourself.”
Chessa thought she’d gag. She said in a loud voice, “The babe is making me ill. I think I shall go vomit.”
Ragnor was looking at Isla with the hunger of a starving man. He said to Baric, “Aye, teach me a love poem and I will recite it to Isla. For practice.”
“Your sweet voice will tire, my lord,” Isla said. “Allow me to bring you some of my special mead to soothe you whilst you sing to me. For practice.”
Chessa walked quickly from the chamber, ran up against a guard who awaited her just outside. He grabbed her arms to keep her upright.
Suddenly, she heard Ragnor yell from the inside of the chamber, “Begin your monthly flow, Chessa, damn you.”
She heard Isla laugh. “Her monthly flow, my lord? What is this?”
15
THE CHAMBER WAS dark. Chessa was alone. She was more worried than frightened. She knew she wouldn’t marry Ragnor and there was no way the queen would force her to. But she didn’t want to wait until the last minute to see what the queen would try. She knew she had to think of something. She sparred daily with Turella, insulted Ragnor until his eyes were crossed, and tried to avoid the king. Olric no longer terrified her, but he was unpredictable and he could lash out before Turella could control him. Kerek was an immovable rock, always there standing in her path, but she didn’t fear him at all. What was she to do now?
Just two hours before, at the evening meal, at least two dozen of the king’s nobles dined with them. Baric played his harp and sang, his woman Isla beside him. Slaves served heaped platters of roasted boar, broiled pheasant, and at least four different kinds of fish. There was more sweet wine and ale than Chessa had ever seen, and most of it was being steadily poured down all the gullets present. Men and women alike ate like stoats and drank until they were laughing at nothing at all, giving insults without anger, cheering Baric even when he wasn’t singing. The woman Isla was given leers and drunken suggestions from most of the men until surely even she must be horrified. But she hadn’t looked it. She just sat there, a besotted look on her face, as she stared at Baric.
After the slaves had cleared away the food, the king looked at all of their drink-flushed faces and said, “You have met Prin
cess Chessa of Ireland. She will wed with Ragnor in three days. She is already carrying his babe, so an heir is assured.”
Chessa had nearly fainted.
Ragnor had nearly fainted as well. She heard him say to Kerek, “Damn you, it’s all your fault. I didn’t want her, I wanted Utta. But now I want Isla. Her mead is as tasty as Utta’s—she let me drink out of her own goatskin—and she wants me. Did you see how she smiled at me? How she spoke to me? Baric even commented on it. She doesn’t care that I don’t have hair on my back, that I haven’t a lush long beard. I hate it that all the men here want her as well. Many of them are as hairy as Baric. Chessa won’t make me mead. She won’t even drink mead with me. She won’t even try to make me happy.”
The king didn’t care that she was pregnant with another man’s child. Surely Turella hadn’t lied and told the king that it was Ragnor’s child she was carrying. Surely she couldn’t have done that. On the other hand the king had sounded so certain, so pleased when he’d announced that she was carrying Ragnor’s babe. It made her dizzy to try to figure out and keep straight in her own mind everyone and his own set notions. She had to think of something. And she did. She could think of nothing else. She rose slowly, aware that Kerek was nearly choking with fear, pulling at her gown, saying over and over, “No, Princess, keep your mouth shut this time. Please, it isn’t wise to go against the king in front of his nobles. Listen to me, sit down, and smile. Drink mead with Ragnor, it will please him.”
She sat down, lowering her head as the nobles began cheering, then yelling lewd advice to Ragnor, who looked quite pleased with himself, despite what he’d just said about not wanting her.
“This isn’t the end of it, Kerek,” she said quietly. “I won’t wed that ass.”
“As you will, Princess,” and she knew he didn’t begin to believe her. He was just humoring her. He had ultimate faith in Turella. Truth be told, so did she.
“Did you and Turella lie to the king about the babe or doesn’t he care that I carry another man’s child?”
Kerek, curse him, just shrugged.
What was she going to do? Whatever it was, she must move quickly. Three days. She found herself wondering if any prince or any king would care if she’d been impregnated by a goat.
