The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Four, Scene Ten

Eithne pouted. "Why does Father trust the drymyn so much in this? Prince's Truth be told, I should've said, 'no,' to all this. He let me be kidnapped, for Brenan's Sake."

Her maid, Breda, shrugged. "He rescued you himself, amid a number of great troubles in his kingdom. The coelbreni and the drymyn favor him." She arched an eyebrow. "He seems a likely enough lad. If you know what I mean, my lady."

Eithne harrumphed. "That's what Father said."

Her other maid, Cuneen, stooped to gather a cluster of blooms.

That night, the garden of the Lady Rathtyen was alive with rose-colored water avens, lilac bitter-vetch, eponymously-named bluebells, and the gold bog myrtle.

"Remember when his first missive arrived?" Cuneen caught up with a small bouquet. "Oh, I do. It was so romantic."

Who will teach a soldier the words that would recommend his suit to a gentle heart like yours?

Cuneen clutched the flower to her breast. Out of the side of her mouth, Breda breathed, "I'd sure like to try."

Eithne scowled at Breda and agreed with Cuneen. In person, Eowain was gruff, war-like, preoccupied with all the daily tasks that came to the desks of kings, high or low. He ordered his council, passed judgments, and pursued bandits in his southern woods. He'd had only a few evenings in their first ten-day to sit together and play at games of fickle. Little enough time to speak of matters between them, where their marital arrangements were concerned. And awkward into the bargain.

Eithne shook her head. "No. Even in his letters, he's a man of war, concluding treaties with idle boasts."

If I could win a lady by playing leapfrog or vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back, I could—though you may accuse me of boasting—easily get myself a wife. But, before the Gods, Eithne, I cannot turn pale on purpose or gasp out fancy phrases, and I have no gift for clever declarations.

So what do you say to my suit? Do you like me, Eithne? Give me your answer; in faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady?

Breda clucked. "As though he were negotiating the purchase of a brood-mare."

"Don't they share the same notion of their blood's dignity that our people have? Doesn't love count for something?" Eithne shook her head.

Cuneen offered her the flowers. "Yet there were other words, my Lady. Hints that maybe Eowain is more than we've seen?"

"Like what?" Eithne wrinkled her nose. "Do, tell us." Cuneen had always been too romantic for Eithne's taste. She'd memorized all of Eowain's missives for her.

A good leg will shrink, a straight back stoop, a black beard turn white, a curly head grow bald, an attractive face grow wrinkled and a pretty eye hollow. But a good heart, Eithne, is the sun and the moon, or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, for it goes on shining brightly forever.

Breda shook her head. "My Lady, can you afford to be picky?"

"Well yes." Eithne bristled. "There it is, isn't it?" A woman of nigh on twenty years, old by the standards of her people to be a fresh, new bride. If she refused this suitor, there might not be another willing to partner with an aged maiden from a remote place in the wilderlands. "Yet why should I agree? What else—not counting warfare and insecurity—does he offer? He's not wealthy. I knew that from the first sight of his court, even if he'd not later written it in his letter."

Cuneen put her finger in the air. "Yes, yes, I remember."

You must find me such an ordinary king that you think I sold my farm to buy my crown.