CHAPTER III

Isolde looked around her room. It was hers, and hers alone. She sighed, happily. Mark was a devoted husband, yes, but even he couldn't keep himself from seeking some wench's attention from time to time. She understood. Back where she came from, married men were allowed to bed other women. Again, back where she came from, married women were also allowed to do the same. Her tribe in Ireland followed the Celtic traditions from old times, which meant freedom and liberty. Mark had a court, a castle and much more regimented and rigid protocol. The first months as Queen had been very hard on her. Even now, she felt the strangling hold of etiquette choking her at certain times.

That was when she took up falconry. During those lonely days when Mark was too busy with his diplomatic work she began to ride out into the forest and observe different kinds of birds. At first she'd been entranced by the eagle's way of flying, the lethal attack on its prey. However, she found them to be too big for her slender arm. And that was when Bragnae, her friend from Ireland, had come to visit her, bringing along the best present she'd ever received. Baile, meaning "home", had only been a chick when Bragnae delivered him to Isolde, and thanks to her careful attention, he had grown to be a wonderful specimen of his family. Baile and Isolde had learned from each other, they had taught each other until they were virtually inseparable. Wherever the Queen went so would the hawk, except whenever he was out exploring.

The door opened all of a sudden to reveal one of her hand-maidens. Wylla was not the most accomplished at her job, but she was beautiful. Isolde had picked both her and Mäe to ensure that Mark had plenty to choose from while in the fort. She did not ask for fidelity, but the one thing she did demand was discretion. Mark usually accepted this bargain, but Isolde didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. She didn't want the whole fort knowing that she was not the only woman to warm the Cornish King's bed, even if they suspected it. Dignity was one of the few things she was left with, and she didn't plan on losing it any time soon.

Isolde dressed herself with the tunic Wylla had brought. The material was soft, too soft for her liking. Having lived with a tribe, she was used to much coarser fabrics. This dress made of raw silk only made her realize how low she was deemed now: a pretty face and a pretty body for a husband to flaunt. Wylla started braiding her hair, but her clumsy and slow fingers made Isolde grow impatient.

"Here, I'll finish that. Go visit your King" she irritably told the lady as her own hands travelled to finish the braid.

Wylla muttered an apology and quickly left the room. Isolde knew that she'd been somewhat harsh with her handmaidens as of recently. Such weakness bothered her far more than anything else. She scolded herself for letting her feelings grow wild.

Wild… her mind suddenly found itself thinking of a certain knight with eyes as savage as the forests that grew back on her homeland. Those dark and smouldering eyes that had made her feel aware of her own body and actions. That rugged face with its untamed hair and beard… Isolde forced herself to stop her mental affair. However hard she tried to stop them, dreams as steamy as the Roman baths she'd heard so much about had crept into her sleep, filling it with images of what those wiry arms could feel like around her body. A chill crept up her spine. That was partly why she hadn't been out in the three days the Cornish embassy had spent at the fort.

"Enough" she told herself "Get over it and go out"

"Get over what?" she turned around to find Mark assessing her from the doorway, his arms crossed and a subtle smirk on his full lips.

"I've been feeling a little sick as of late" she managed to say without trembling.

Mark's smile grew wider.

"You might be with child" he offered as an explanation, walking closer to her.

"I'm bleeding right now, so I do not think that's the case" she phrased as carefully as possible.

She saw her husband's smile falter and finally disappear before he sighed in disappointment. Isolde suddenly felt terrible. She'd been taking a potion which she knew would prevent pregnancy ever since she first arrived at Cornwall. At first it had been out of spite: she'd fought against the marriage with all her might, but her father, wanting to establish trade routes between Mark's city and his own, had forced her to go ahead with the plan. Then she'd grown scared of giving birth when her sister died while delivering a boy who had also died. Now she just did it out of tradition. She knew it had to stop. She just didn't know if she could.

"I was going to go to the tavern" she added as pleasantly as she could.

But Mark had a different idea, for he closed the door and took her to bed. He wasn't as careful or considerate as other times, probably because he felt a twinge of bitterness about her apparent infertility. Isolde behaved the way she'd been taught before her wedding night: she let herself be handled, allowed her body to be fondled, but didn't contribute any more than he personally asked her to. Once he was done, Mark clothed himself and left the room without any other word. Isolde remained in her bed, her eyes wet with tears she would never shed.

A while later, she dressed in a gown chosen by herself and left the building in the darkness, her feet covered by warm boots and her arms protected with a cape made out of wool, Baile perched on her shoulder. Isolde marched up to her horse and saddled him as quietly as possible before mounting him and setting the stallion on the path towards the highest hill. She knew she wasn't supposed to behave this way, but her throat had been itching, pressed by a claw made of rules and forced silence. She needed to get away, if only for a short moment.

Once the steed had reached its destiny, Isolde dismounted in one swift movement and sent Baile flying with a strong jerk of her arm. The cold and yet gentle puffs of wind dishevelled her hairdo even more, and she took trembling fingers to the end of the braid to undo it. The feeling of her long mane flowing freely in the wind brought new tears to her eyes. This time, away from propriety and people, she let them fall. Feeling no more than a girl, Isolde lay on the soft grass and hugged her knees. Sobs shook her shoulders in violent shivers. She never knew how long she stayed there, sensing sweet nature around her. When her eyes dried up, she just looked up at the sky as it began to tint itself with a reddish tone. It was dawn.

Isolde compelled herself to stand up and get atop her horse again, leading it back to the fort. No one saw her as she unsaddled the stallion and brushed it clean. No one saw her as she crept up the stairs and went into her room. No one save for a lonely scout who watched in silence.