Howl Still
While men have politely debated free will, we have howled for it,
Howl still, pacing the centuries, tragedy heroines.
A black capped chickadee warbled on a frost dusted branch outside the window, its cheerful wintry song a stark contrast to Merel’s mournful expression. She watched the bird flitter about the bare gray branches as she freed her long, yellow hair from its braid. Stripes, her orange tabby cat, arched his back as he wound about her ankles. A smile flickered on her face as she looked down at the cat only to vanish as she caught sight of the chickadee once more.
“I envy the freedom of birds.” She turned away from the window to face Liana. “Do you never think what it would be like, if you could fly away out the window and never return?”
Liana’s dark brows contracted eloquently in response.
“You’re right, of course.” Merel relented, turning away from her friend once again and examining one of the tapestries hanging from the wall. The woven tales of myth and history featured vast figures that towered over foes, majestic in their wild freedom. “Birds have cages as often as women.”
“It isn’t as bad as all that, Merel,” Liana placed one hand on her friend’s shoulder with a gentleness at odds with the reproachful tone of her voice.
“Isn’t it?” Merel lifted one hand to touch Liana’s fingers briefly, then dropped it in front of her, where it joined its companion in twisting her long fingers in unconcealed distress. “He asks daily, Liana! Daily! I tire of turning him away!”
“If you tire of it…” Liana began.
Merel cut her off bitterly as her eyes wandered over the woven form of the Alorn’s god, Belar, feasting with a group of soldiers. A goblet of wine was in one hand and the other had captured a serving girl around the waist. “Do not suggest to me that I accept his courtship! I detest him! I’m certain sure he wishes to wear me down. As if I’m an opponent he must defeat and not a woman he claims to woo.”
Liana moved to stand beside Merel, her eyes finding the same leering figure that entranced her friend. “Is that any wonder? Men known for valor often require a civilizing touch. He doesn’t spend all day trapped indoors weaving.”
“And am I a man trainer? I would rather live out the rest of my days alone than be responsible for civilizing brutes.”
“You don’t mean that,” Liana laughed in disbelief. “Nobody wishes to grow old alone.” Her eyes traveled away from Belar and the serving girl and landed on the figure of Cherek Bear-Shoulders, last of the Kings of Aloria and the founder of the Kingdom of Cherek, ordering his kingdom divided between himself and his three sons on the orders of the sorcerer Belgarath. “And he’s the cousin of King Anheg…”
Merel jerked herself away from Belar as well as well and turned towards the neighboring tapestry, where the early chieftains of the Alorns were depicted drawing lots for the Kingship of Aloria. Her voice had turned as hard and cold as the frost upon the window. “Do you think me unaware? If he were the king himself still I would tell him no.”
Liana pressed onward, refusing to be deterred, “Perhaps if he had land…”
“I would rather be landless than saddled with a husband I care nothing about,” Merel peered with eyes now wetly bright at woven renditions of the fleets of ships that represented Cherek to the rest of the world - ships that meant fear and despair. Once they had you in sight there was no hope of escape. “You’ve known me from girlhood and this is what you think of me!”
“I know you’re stubborn and impractical enough to reject Belar himself.” Liana held one hand in front of her, observing the emerald ring glimmering on one finger. “But marrying nobility has advantages.” She had enumerated them to Merel before now, but her lack of success in convincing the other woman hadn’t shaken her serene conviction that her friend would eventually capitulate to the courtship.
“My father would hardly be thrilled with a low-born match,” Merel agreed heavily, leaving the tapestry to settle upon the edge of her bed. She wiggled her fingers at her tabby cat, who leaped onto her lap with a prrt. She stroked Stripes fur, and he kneaded her skirts in untroubled contentment. “And Barak is hardly low-born. He simply lacks any title or land. And he also lacks my love,” She concluded firmly, “And that’s what’s most important.”
Merel adjusted the wool hat so that it covered her ears more securely. Her seal skin boots, lined with caribou fur for extra warmth, sank into the snow banks that clogged the narrow streets of Val Alorn. The hem of her luxurious fox fur coat and her ruffled, brightly striped skirts fell just below her knees, revealing black seal skin leggings. Longer skirts were impractical outdoors, where the snow would make them sodden and heavy. The burly Cherek snow-sweepers valiantly began work as soon as the sun rose and continued until the sun had sunk below the horizon, but even they could never guarantee clear or easy passage.
She exchanged pleasantries with a few of the snow-sweepers, and with any resident not too involved in their own affairs to acknowledge her. When she saw a woman struggling to open her door, burdened as she was with baskets of wool, an infant, and two small boys, Merel strode over to offer help. The woman gave her a tired smile and a sincere, weary thanks.
She watched until the woman and her children were all safely ensconced in their home before heading up the narrow, icy steps that lead away from the market. She paused when she was only halfway up. She could just see the frosted masts of the warships in the harbor through a gap between buildings. The sight cast a shadow of foreboding across what had been until this point a pleasant day. Merel resolutely turned away from the sight of the ships; it did her no good to dwell on them, she was well aware that The Seabird was harbored here for the winter. She wouldn’t allow that to spoil her mood when its master remained blissfully absent.
As she set foot upon the top step a group of little girls darted in front of her, pelting one another with snowballs. One of the snowballs smacked against her arm, losing form as it fell into the snow along the road. Merel was so startled she dropped the basket she was holding, scattering the contents. She stared at the snowbank her shopping had disappeared into with a grimace that caused the youngest of the girls to cry. Merel quickly fixed her expression into a reassuring smile before she bent over to salvage what she could.
“There, there. No harm done, is there?” She turned her basket upside down and shook it to dump out the residual snow. “It’s only a bit of snow.”
She set the basket carefully on the stone wall that lined the stairs and bent over to dig through the snow. She could feel the chill even through her mittens as she plucked out one item after another, dusted them free of snow, and dropped them back into her basket. Some snow still clung to the new shawl she had bought as a gift for Liana, but it would melt and be no worse for the accident.
One of the older girls grabbed the still crying youngster by the arm, tugging her along. “We’re sorry, Mistress!” She apologized, bobbing her head so quickly that her wool hat slipped over her eyes.
Merel waved one mittened hand at the girls, exasperated by their deference. “Oh, off with you! Snow’s for snowball fights, everyone in Val Alorn knows that.”
Several of the girls giggled nervously, but after Merel had gathered her shopping and passed them by she could hear the sounds of furious shrieking resume, followed by the thud of packed snow against solid forms and gleeful laughter.
She smiled to herself as she left the children’s snow fight behind. Although snow halted industry and agriculture to some extent, it was such a natural part of home that she couldn’t help but love it. She began to hum an old Cherek tune to herself, resisting the urge to skip down the streets; snow may have been an integral part of Cherek, but it also made for treacherous streets if one wasn’t careful.
As she turned down a side street a bulky shadow passed over her, and she jerked her head back towards the street she had left so that she could greet her fellow citizen. But the smile froze on her lips as she took in the familiar, hated features.
“Ah, Merel!” He beamed down at her through his bushy red beard. A fur cap was jammed down over his head, obscuring his eyebrows.
“Barak,” She returned his greeting stiffly. A quick glance in either direction showed her a street unexpectedly deserted. She felt certain there had been a snow-sweeper clearing this street only a few moments before.
Barak remained unaffected by the chilly dislike that emanated from her. Indeed, he looked nothing short of delighted at the good fortune that had brought him across her path. “This is fortuitous! Do you perhaps have a moment to spare?”
Merel shook her head mutely, unable to come up with a suitable lie on the spot. She’d been so enjoying this walk home, but all those pleasant feelings had evaporated the moment she had seen Barak’s face. She gripped her basket so tight that her hands hurt. That was preferable to succumbing to the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
Barak’s face fell. “Not even a little moment?” He persisted, taking another step closer. “It won’t take long at all!”
Merel swallowed and took a step backwards, hitting the wall. She took a fortifying breath before answering him in a shaky voice. “I...I really must return home, Barak. You know how my father gets when I’m late.”
“I could walk you home and explain.”
Merel wondered how he managed not to notice the pained expression she wore whenever he forced his company upon her. Or perhaps, she reflected darkly, he simply didn’t care. “I really couldn’t ask such a thing,” She said firmly, and purposefully dodged beneath his arms. As she passed her muscles tensed, half afraid he would physically restrain her.
Instead he chose to follow her.
“It’s just a small matter, Merel,” He explained as they weaved their way together around a group of snowmen with coal black grins. “I thought perhaps you could accompany me to the dedicating of Grinneg’s ship next week.”
“Oh, no, I can’t!” She answered quickly, increasing her pace despite the dangers the ice possessed. “Perhaps you could ask Alladora! She’d never say no!”
“Ah, but it could only be you, Merel,” Barak argued, picking up his own stride in order to keep pace with her.
She gritted her teeth and prayed that someone along the street might intervene with some pressing need of council from the King’s cousin. “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go alone.”
Barak continued to follow her, undeterred. “Lady Liana said you were free that day.”
Merel resisted the sudden urge to fling her basket at his head. “Liana hasn’t any idea what my schedule is like!” She snapped. “I told you no, and that’s my final answer!”
But any optimism she had that he might, eventually, understand the word ‘no’ was quickly dashed. He begged and pleaded the whole way to her home, so that she was forced to slam the door in his face. Once she had discarded her snow covered boots and coat she retreated to the safety of her own room and flung her basket at the floor. The shawl she had bought Liana spilled onto the floor. She kicked it angrily and then dropped onto her bed. Her cat uncurled himself from where he’d lain on the pillows and rubbed against her face.
“Oh, Stripes. I wish he’d just leave me alone!” She complained, burying her face in the soft fur. Stripes purred sympathetically, which helped drain the tension from Merel’s shoulders. She sighed, and rolled off the bed to begin preparing for sleep. “Perhaps…” She began, bravely attempting to bolster her flagging spirits, “Perhaps he’ll be busy tomorrow and I won’t have to see him.”
But she knew that was never true.
The winter had thawed into a cool spring but Merel gained no comfort from the warmth. Her father had called her into the sitting room, where she now sat rigid with horror. She stared at her father in stony silence. Her mother stood at his shoulder, lending weight to his decree with her presence but as silent as her daughter. Persain was as beautiful as her daughter, though her face was lined with care and her hair had more gray than brown. But her green eyes were dull and joyless; Merel had watched life slowly drain from her mother over the course of years.
She wondered if her father had ever noticed.
“Your mother and I have already agreed to the arrangement.” Nandag clasped both hands behind his back and peered down his impressive nose at his daughter.
She remained resolutely mute. The silence was punctuated by her mother’s delicate sneeze, and whispered apology as she brought her handkerchief to her nose.
Nandag seemed to take this as a sign to continue debating a point Merel was not allowed to refute. “He has land, power, connections to the king.”
Merel tilted her head upward a fraction of an inch. She caught her mother’s eye; her mother lowered her head demurely.
“And he’s desperate to marry you.” Nandag’s eyes, the same shade of blue as Merel’s, regarded her sternly. “These opportunities don’t present themselves often. Your mother and I had expected the reverse of this situation.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the woman submissively standing there, and she gave a barely perceptible nod of encouragement.
Merel balled her hands into fists in her lap. Her pale face was flushed. “I do not love him and do not wish to marry him.” She had never been shy about her lack of interest, and yet everyone around her seemed to have entirely missed this.
“And who would you marry in his stead?” Her father raised an eyebrow at her in challenge.
Tears trickled from the corner of her eyes. She refused to brush them away, but stared straight ahead into her father’s pale, bearded face. “I would marry nobody,” She whispered.
Her father grinned mirthlessly. “There is nobody? Then it is settled. You shall marry Earl Barak.”
“Is it not exciting?” Alladora tittered as she pinned Merel’s hair into an elaborate pile of braids. “Marrying an Earl!” She sighed wistfully, allowing several strands of golden locks to fall across Merel’s shoulders as she stared into the distance. “Do you suppose an Earl would marry me?”
“You could switch places with me,” Merel responded dully. She had numbly allowed herself to be maneuvered towards the inexorable wedding, too numb to object to the suggestions the elder generations gave. The trepidation she had felt in the weeks leading up the wedding had slowly worn down all her emotions until there was nothingness.
She wished the rest of her could wear down into nothingness as well.
Or, if she could not be that fortunate, she wished she could at least muster the energy to be ornery and make everyone else miserable with her. But she had exhausted herself pleading with her parents for freedom.
They had remained as immovable as the stone towers of Val Alorn.
Liana laughed as she laced up Merel’s wedding gown. “Oh, but it is you he loves! Everyone knows you’re the only woman for him,”
Alladora sighed again. “Isn’t it so romantic? It’s something straight out of a story, the prince asking and asking until his ladylove realizes she loves him, too.”
Merel grimaced; neither Alladora nor Liana appeared to notice.
“You look lovely!” Alladora continued, touching her friend’s shoulders lightly in order to turn her about in admiration. “Barak won’t be able to resist.”
“Wonderful,” Merel muttered under her breath.
A knock sounded against the heavy wooden door, announcing that it was time for the wedding party to take their places. Alladora swiftly pressed a kiss against Merel’s cheek, whispering, “Lucky!” before disappearing out the door. Liana followed at her heel.
Persain took her daughter by the elbow and whispered low in her ear. “Do not forget, your husband deserves your respect and obedience. It is your duty to please him.”
She found herself marching between rows upon rows of spectators, people gathered together to celebrate her doom. Their faces blurred together at the edges of her vision. The music that accompanied her gallows walk only penetrated as a distant buzz. Each step she took brought her closer, closer, closer to the end. A fleeting impulse to run for the doors crossed her mind. She would never make it; too many people stood between her and freedom. And what life would she have if she tried? She couldn’t go back to the life she had known. She would have to flee to the mountains and become a brigand.
Only one person entering this marriage had the skills necessary to become a brigand.
She finally came to a stop at the front of the room. She was keenly aware of Barak’s presence beside her, and it was an effort to remain in place rather than bolting after all. She stood beside him, pale and beautiful as a statue.
The priest of Belar spoke the vows in a deep, melodious voice. When Merel repeated them she was surprised to hear how steady her voice sounded. And when Barak went in to kiss her she stood still without crying.
Drink flowed freely at the celebration afterwards. Nandag and Persain accompanied the new couple to the ballroom. They both seemed relieved that the wedding had been disaster free. When they reached the ballroom King Anheg intercepted the couple, and Merel’s parents politely excused themselves so that he could talk with his cousin.
Anheg clapped a hand on Barak’s shoulder and grinned. “Congratulations! You’re a married man.”
Barak returned the grin. “At last! Come, celebrate with me before the drink runs out.”
They left her standing there. She frowned after them and then caught sight of Queen Islena hurrying forward. Their eyes met, and Merel inwardly groaned. Islena’s company was only marginally better than Barak’s.
“A beautiful wedding,” Islena breathed. “And a blessed one. I divined that you and Barak will have a long, happy marriage with many children.”
Merel offered a strained smile. “Is that so?” She looked around for an escape. Alladora was laughing at something Earl Jarvik had said. Liana was handing her husband a goblet of mead. No help there. “I…thank you, your majesty.” She placed a hand to her forehead, frowning slightly, “But do excuse me. Today has been most exhausting. You understand.”
Islena smiled indulgently. “Of course. You’ll need to save your strength for later if Barak is anything like Anheg.”
Merel’s expression tightened and she retreated ungraciously towards the door, dodging grey-haired matrons who kept sighing in her direction. “Congratulations! Isn’t love young so wonderful?”
She cast her eyes towards the ground in response. “Perhaps it is.”
Every now and again she looked over her shoulder to where Barak and his friends were imbibing goblet after goblet with seemingly unslakable thirst. She hoped they would drink themselves into a stupor.
Eventually she shook off the last clueless well-wisher and slipped through the ballroom door. She bypassed the nearest washroom; she knew that one would be consistently in use from women attending to uncooperative hair or emptying their bladders after too heavy drinking. She wanted to be somewhere she would be undisturbed. When she reached the furthest washroom possible from the ballroom she shut herself inside and succumbed to the desperate sobs that had been waiting all week to burst out.
But there was no hiding from her future; all too soon the door to her sanctuary creaked open and Liana’s voice said, “Merel?”
Merel slowly got to her feet and straightened the wrinkled skirts of her gown. Her braids had come undone and tears had glued flyaway yellow hairs to her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen and red. “What do you need, Liana?” Merel asked, her voice stuffy.
“Everyone is looking for you. Most of the guests have gone home now. Your father is furious.”
Merel brushed hair out of her face. “Am I not allowed to use the washroom now I’m married?”
Liana hummed and beckoned her friend forward. “We thought you had run away.”
Merel folded her arms across her chest petulantly. It would serve them right if I had, she thought fiercely. If only she’d had the spine to risk it.
Merel endured her parents berating with a stubborn insistence that she had only wished to use the washroom, and then allowed them to present her to her inebriated husband. She was disappointed to find that he was still conscious. As Persain left she hissed in Merel’s ear, “Do not forget your duty.”
Merel wished that she could. She had never been more aware of how vast Barak was - he was both taller and wider than her, and leering at her with drunken excitement.
She cried when it was over. For the first time, Barak appeared to notice her tears. He frowned down at her. “Did it hurt?”
She shrank away from him, rubbing her bare arms.“Does it matter? It is my duty, pain or no.”
Barak looked disconcerted by her proclamation. “I do not wish to hurt you.”
Merel snorted derisively and turned her back on him. The sight of his confused, pained face was hateful to her. If he had truly wished to do her no harm he would never have married her. “But My Lord, duty always hurts for women.”
“No other woman I’ve been with has said so…” He began.
She cut him off, her voice shaking. “And why should they have said? Women do not burden the menfolk with our petty concerns. Our pain is unimportant. We know our duty.”
He fell silent. She didn’t know if he had finally fallen asleep or if he was truly considering her words. She found she didn’t much care either way, as long as he didn’t touch her.
From where she lay she could see the bottom of the tapestry beside Barak’s bed. She saw the figure of Belar, drinking and laughing and groping a woman whose face was inscrutable. Merel felt a surge of rage at her god. Why had she been foolish enough to believe he would ever answer her prayers over Barak’s? Belar was known for loving women. But now she realized that when people said Belar loved women, they used it in the same way that Barak used it when he said he loved her. He coveted, he objectified, he desired women. When he walked among his worshippers he pursued women, and she had never heard that they rejected him.
But who would reject a god?
He had never been the god of the Alorn women after all. It was only the men who mattered. The men who could petition and hope to be answered. But the women? The women would forever be shackled by that cruel, binding force that men called love.
Gradually Barak realized that whatever hope he’d nursed that marriage would soften her towards him had been folly.
She wondered sourly how it had taken him such a long time to recognize what ought to have been a glaringly obvious truth. Dutiful she would be, but loving never. How could she love a man who had forced her into marriage with him?
The aches and pains of pregnancy did nothing to sweeten her towards him. Each night she spent awake while a tiny creature kicked inside her, or the burning within her throat kept her awake, her hatred was renewed. As she became too big to bend over and required help even pulling on her boots, when her joints loosened and upset her balance so that she waddled rather than glided and pain lanced up her leg through her hip, she cursed him anew. If only she had any belief that Belar would hear her and strike her husband down.
But of course he would not.
When labor came and she howled and gasped with pain she clung to the one small pleasure she had, which was that at least everyone fully expected her to berate Barak for impregnating her. And for all the trauma she had endured to bring her daughter into the world, caring for Gundred gave her a ready made excuse to remain away from him for much of the time. She was sleep deprived and wept far too often, but at least she was largely free of his interference. Men weren’t expected to help with babies; they were only expected to inflict them upon their women.
Barak’s hopes were not the only death, however. While Merel stubbornly refused to pretend affection for her husband, Alladora and Liana gradually distanced themselves from her.
“You only hate him because he came late to his Earldom,” Alladora hissed at her one evening when Barak and Merel had visited the Earl Jarik’s estate.
The injustice of this accusation stung. “How interesting,” She commented, glaring at her former friend over the supper they had just finished eating. “I believe you only married Jarik because he was an Earl.”
Barak had been most displeased at her when they left. “Must you cause a scene in front of everyone?”
“Is it your wish, My Lord, that I allow everyone to insult me and not leave that pleasure solely to my husband?”
Barak seethed at her. “It is not my fault you provoke me!”
Merel smiled coldly at this. “Liana warned me that men of valor, how did she put it, can’t be expected to maintain self-control.” She wondered if personal experience had been at work there and regretted not asking. But Liana had always been so insistent that her life was wonderful and that Merel ought to envy her; she surely would never have confessed…if there was anything to confess.
Merel had hoped that she would only be forced to endure the one pregnancy, but once Gundred was old enough to sleep through the night Barak insisted on resuming their marital liaisons. Merel complied with the sort of meticulous but joyless demeanor people usually showed for necessary but unpleasant duties such as paying taxes. Barak complained that she was frigid in love making; she pointed out that the fulfillment of her duties did not include enthusiasm.
“Surely my husband would not wish me to lie?” She asked pointedly, and she left him lying in bed while she washed herself free of the reminders of their pleasureless intimacy.
Another nine months of discomfort that ended in agony and Terzie was born. Gundred was ecstatic at having a little sister. Merel once again used her motherhood as a defense against her husband. Her daughters became her life. At times she looked at their small forms, defenseless and innocent still, and imagined their futures. The thought of either of her beautiful little girls disappearing into the prison of a loveless marriage filled her with horror.
Her demeanor towards Barak grew colder still. She learned the words necessary to send him scurrying for cover. She discovered that she could cause pain by simply repeating the advice her mother had given her. When she spoke of duty she might as well have been plunging a knife into his heart.
She took a vicious pleasure in this. He should be just as confined as her by the cage he had believed only prepared for her suffering.
He began to spend more and more time away from his estate, until he was at King Anheg’s court more often than he was at Trellheim.
Merel was relieved. In his absence she was buoyant; she was aware of the shackles, but they were lighter when she knew she wouldn’t have to endure his company or, worse, the marital duties he continued to insist on even as his fantasies crumbled into dust around him.
Nearly the entire court blamed her for the state of their marriage; Barak was charming and popular , particularly among the men. She was a beautiful woman born into status who had rejected the advances of a popular man. She had expected to exercise her own free will, not to be a prize given to a man she despised simply because other people thought him deserving.
Alladora and Liana had only encouraged the rumors that her rejection of Barak had been because of status, and that if she had not been so shallow she would have thrown herself at his feet. She had been hurt at first, but had eventually concluded that so long as he stayed out of her hair and allowed her the raising of their daughters and the running of their household then other people’s opinions didn’t matter.
After all, none of them had ever shown the slightest inclination to care about her opinions.
On those occasions that Barak returned home he would rail against her, his eyes bulging and waving his meaty arms in wild outrage. “You’re being unfair! What have I done to deserve your cold treatment?”
She had seen him launch spears at simple old women who angered him. She had been subject herself to the aggression he seemed to feel warranted no ill feelings. But she refused to cower before him. She would never give him that satisfaction. Instead she held her ground, her head high, and asked coldly, “Have I ever failed in my duty to you, My Lord?”
“You do not give willingly!” He snarled, stepping so near that she could feel his spit hit her cheek.
“What has willing or unwilling to do with duty? Or do you believe you can command my love? You command many things, My Lord. My duty is only to serve and to obey. Whether I serve with love or without is my choice, for my love is the only thing that is mine alone to give or withhold.”
He fell back, enormous shoulders sagging in misery. “Even if you do not love me, it is heartless of you to keep our daughters from me.”
“You are welcome to remain home whenever you wish, my Lord,” Merel responded coolly. “I do not decide where you choose to spend your time.”
And he would return alone to court, blaming her all the while. And she heard the whispers amongst their servants as well. If she did not spurn him then he would stay, but she was cruel.
She refused to feel sorry for him. He had friends and supporters; she had none but her two young daughters, and she could hardly confide her woes to them. Instead she taught them songs and she taught them to swim and to build snow forts and how to braid their hair. She did not teach them the stories of Belar and he did not come to Trellheim, not even on the rare occasions when Barak was there.
She did not mind; as far as she was concerned he had abandoned her long ago and she owed him less than she owed Barak.
The changes began imperceptibly. His wild red mane grew a bit shaggier, his already impressive temper grew a bit more aggressive. They already sparred so much that it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where and when those changes began, but slowly they built up until it was impossible not to notice that something had changed.
Merel wondered what it might mean. Perhaps he’d finally misstepped at court and was no longer welcome. Perhaps his title had been revoked. Perhaps, said a little hopeful voice in her mind, he was deathly ill. But that seemed unlikely to be true; rather than wasting away he seemed to be growing vaster.
Barak was obviously attempting to keep the changes secret. She couldn’t decide if it was amusing - did he truly believe he was subtle? Or if it was insulting - did he truly believe she was that stupid? Just because she hated him didn’t mean she didn’t know him.
Merel knew he would never confide in her, and she had no desire to pretend he might. But she took delight in occasionally making innocent comments about his need to shave or comb or that perhaps he ought to cut back on the mead.
And then one day a maid informed her in terror that she had heard it prophesied that the Earl of Trellheim would become a monster.
A few evenings later he had requested her presence in their bedroom after the girls had gone to bed. This was the perfect opportunity to turn the tables on him.
She shimmied out of her overdress, talking in a more conversational way than was usual for them. “I heard the most interesting rumor recently,” She said, allowing the overdress to fall to the floor. “People are saying that you’re cursed to transform into some sort of monster.”
He had flushed a deep red that nearly matched his hair and beard but said nothing.
She opened her blue eyes as wide as they would go and began unbraiding her hair. “Is it true, my Lord?” She prompted, unable to prevent a note of hope from escaping.
Barak mumbled incoherently at his hands.
Merel sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, fixing an expression of false sympathy on her face. “I simply feel that your wife should know such things. How am I expected to carry out my duties of caring for my husband if you keep secrets from me?”
“It is true,” He mumbled at his hands, and she felt a twinge of satisfaction.
“I am so glad you told me,” She smoothed her golden hair against her shoulder and settled back against her pillow, feeling more hopeful than she had in years.
Her husband was truly becoming on the outside the monster he was on the inside, and eventually everyone else would see it, too. They would be unable to deny the prison they had condemned her to; they would have no choice but to set her and her daughters free.
It was only a matter of time.