The Tattooed Woman Pt 44

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 44

All the best to those following this story. Sorry for the delay, I had a wee spell in hospital (yea, hmm, maybe more in this later, but it's a pest).

Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input. Their help is really invaluable.

As always, comments are welcome and encouraged.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 44: Darkness Has Descended on Our Lands

"I don't think he likes me."

Narissa had been escorted to the chamber by one of the household guards. She had seen more than a few of their ilk in her time, as they frequented her inn, concerned with their own debauchery and behaving like sots. Many were nothing but bravoes or bullies, little more than thugs flaunting the tabard of whatever House was daft enough to employ the useless bastards. Either that or they were sellswords who had taken wounds or were past their prime and seeking an easier life. And while she had no great fondness for the former, she at least had some small sympathy for the latter.

Not here, though. Here, the fuckers actually seemed to know their business. They were a watchful, lean-looking lot, well-trained and hard. They dressed not in foppery but in mail, and the weapons they carried had a distinctly well-used look to them. Certainly, the half-dozen or so she had brawled with had known their business, as her collection of bruises had attested to.

What surprised her most about them, though, was how, even when they had run her to ground and got her down, they hadn't put the boot in much more than was needed. Given the trail of carnage and groaning bodies she had left in her wake during her frequent escape attempts, that had taken her somewhat aback. They weren't gentle as such, and the fading black eye and swollen lip she sported showed they hadn't gone easy on her, but the beatings she had expected as punishment for her unwavering recalcitrance had never materialised, not even so much as even a flogging. They had just dragged her kicking and screaming, or sometimes unconscious, as had happened twice, back to the dungeon and thrown her back into her cell.

A couple had even joked with her about it, albeit from a safe distance, which was damned galling because she really wanted to despise them.

The food had been decent as well, which was a shame. The first time they had fed her, she almost killed one of them with a fork, and they learned very quickly just exactly how much damage someone can do with a tin plate when they really put their mind to it. Eventually, the guard Sergeant had told her, in no uncertain terms, that if she wanted to play that game, she would be tied hand and foot and fed like a toddler. In return, she told him precisely what she was going to do to him the next time they met.

To his credit, the annoying prick just laughed. The headbutt she fetched him had earned her the black eye, but it had been satisfying, nonetheless.

Iris and Maggie had done their best to temper her mood, but with Cassie missing at the time, she was not for calming, and the first time Hildegard had come to try and explain things had almost ended up in a murderous disaster.

By then, she had been chained to the wall, but the chain was long, easily long enough to be deftly looped around the human's ankles like a lasso. The next loop had gone neatly around her neck, and Narissa would have strangled the bitch right there and then had not that big half-orc woman who followed her not been quick off the mark. She had grabbed Narissa with her off-hand, hauling the dark elf clear off the ground before slamming her hard against the wall of the cell.

Despite the stars she was seeing, Narissa had coiled about the giantess's arm like a serpent. The half-orc cursed as she tried to shake her off and then cursed again as Narissa stole the blade from her belt and tried to stab her with it, snarling and spitting like a wildcat the whole time.

Garrow's arm had cocked back, and Narissa had a horrible moment to appreciate the sheer size of the oncoming fist before the lights went out.

When she woke, she felt like she had been kicked by a horse, and Iris was tenderly dabbing the cut to her lip.

Those were not good days, and the nights were worse as she sat fretting in that cursed cell. Her mood was thoroughly black. She had been waspish and bitterly angry, and she'd said some cruel, cruel things to those who were her friends. Things that would be hard to take back.

When Cassie had finally returned to them, the relief she had felt was a palpable thing. The human girl was her adoptive sister, after all, and she and Iris had nursed Narissa when she had been sorely hurt. The dark elf knew she had been a truly awful patient, but the younger woman had answered her bouts of foul temper and churlish tantrums only with smiles and kindness. It was fucking horrible.

Indeed, Narissa found the girl to be almost aggravatingly likeable. But even so, it surprised her how much she found herself worrying about the little shit when she had gone missing,

"Must be some strange human magic."

Her safe return had finally smothered much of the impotent rage she had been feeling, and that was enough for Narissa to grudgingly give her parole to Lady Aventine. Hildegard had accepted the gesture with something of a wry smile, but at least she hadn't taken the piss. She also hadn't mentioned the bruise around her throat that the high collar she was wearing didn't quite conceal. The half-orc with her, however, only glowered and looked more than willing to beat her senseless at the slightest provocation. But maybe she was just a bad-tempered sort; you could never tell with half-orcs.

With that done, the chains and fetters had been removed, and comfortable chambers had been offered, but her damned pride had compelled her to stay in the dungeon. It was childish, and it was petty, she knew that, but she was a dark elf and would rather spit in the eye of a dragon before she admitted to such or before recanting her mulish obstinacy.

Still, when Iris and the others said they would rather stay with her than go, she had to hide in the cell a while, lest they foolishly mistake her sniffle for some base sentiment and not the effect of dust or... something. Thankfully, they let her be and made no mention of her lapse.

Apologising to Iris had been the hardest thing she had ever done,

"And that includes being gruesomely murdered, so that really says something."

Dark Elves don't typically say, "Sorry", and certainly not to those who are meant to be nothing more than indentured servants but who have somehow become so much more. The buxom barmaid had listened to her bumbling ramblings for almost a full minute before shaking her head with a grin, "Oh, dear Gods, enough. That has to be the worst apology of an apology I've ever heard."

Narissa sighed, "I'm sorr-"

Stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her, Iris pulled her close, "Shhh, hush now, the fact that you made an effort is more than enough for me. Nobody else has ever given me as much as you."

"I-I'll make it up to you."

"You've already done that, and more; every time you treated me fair, despite me being a bit of a sot," she smiled, "I'll always remember the first day we met. I'd come from a place where there was nothing but hard work and hard rations. And the lash was the answer to any backchat or complaint. You'd won me at dice and put me to work, but come dinner time, I was looking for gruel, but instead, we all sat around the same table, eating the same food. And you took no more than your share. It was... incredible, for I'd never seen such a thing."

The dark elf snorted, "It wasn't much. I didn't have much in the way of coin back then, and the place wasn't mine. I just ran it."

"Then, when Marcella the Pimp offered to buy me for her brothel, you told her to go fuck herself with a table leg."

"Well, I'd just got you proper trained as a serving wench. No use wasting all that effort. Besides," she grinned, "her offer was cheap, and... I misliked her tone."

"And when she came back with her pet brute? Saying how she didn't think it was right that she should be obliged to take such refusal from a mouthy little tramp like you and boasting how a lesson needed to be taught?"

"Aye, well, she was a bitch, so fuck her. She's lucky I didn't cut off both her ears but took only the one. Hells, I even gave it back."

"Once you had it pickled and hung on a lanyard, so she could wear it round her neck."

"She was annoying."

Narissa shrugged, "Look, lass, the truth is I won you at a game of chance, and I didn't treat you any better than anyone else who worked for me. Plus, um, I used weighted dice, so I don't deserve this gratitude."

Stroking her cheek, Iris leaned close as she whispered, "'Tis not gratitude I feel, Narissa, but I'll not embarrass you further," drawing a breath, she stepped back, "Come, buy me a drink, and I'll call us quits."

"Actually, about that."

"Gods, don't tell me we've run out of booze?"

Narissa chuckled, "No, you drunken floozy, but I was wondering if, when this is done, you'd consider being my, well..."

"Your what?"

"My hataira?"

Iris stared at her, "Your kept woman? Is that not what I already am?"

"No, well, yes, but, I mean, I'd declare it. Openly. You would be my bean chéile, and all would know what you mean to me. We would be partners."

Iris frowned, "Like a marriage?"

"Gods, no! Your significance is far too great for me to belittle you so."

"What?"

The dark elf laughed at her confusion, "You forget who we are, Iris. For us, marriage is a business contract, nothing more. They are arranged, usually for political or financial gain or perhaps as a breeding contract to improve the bloodline of a house. There's no feeling or fondness involved, no sentiment. And they are divorced or annulled as soon as the contract has run its course. No, a marriage is simply an... arrangement of convenience. I would have you be more if you'll have me."

Iris flushed, "B-but why me?"

Looking down in obvious embarrassment, Narissa shook her head, "Will you make me say it, Iris?"

The human woman used a gentle hand to lift the dark elf's chin so she could look into those strange dark red eyes, eyes that reflected the light of the witch lamps, like those of a wild cat. And, as always, she felt the same hungry shiver run down her spine as she did, "No, I'll not do that to you," she laughed, "but you still owe me a drink."

***

And so it was that Narissa was in a distinctly jovial mood when she was later shown into the presence of the woman who had summoned her. Like her, she was of the Bean Sídhe, a Dökkálfar

,

slender as a knife, and dressed in sombre garb. She was tall and poised, with eyes as black as pools of sable ink, and her hair had been pulled back into a most severe style and held in place by a silver clasp.

The study where she stood was of modest dimensions and lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes of all sizes. But Narissa's eye was drawn towards a nook to one side where there was a wooden mannequin bearing a suit of light mail that was as dark as night and had a hooded cape that could be drawn across the face of the wearer. A bandolier of small knives hung across its shoulder, and a single straight sword in a simple scabbard of plain wood was displayed on a stand nearby. Both armour and blade looked well cared for and well used.

The woman standing behind the desk regarded her cooly, and the thin smile playing on her lips did not reach her eyes. She had dismissed her escort with a nod and a gesture, and Narissa had turned to watch the guard as he retired from the room, "I don't think he likes me."

The woman sniffed, "Hardly surprising, 'twas him you shoved from the walls in one of your, um,

episodes

. Perhaps he still harbours some small grievance for the discomfort of so many broken bones."

Narissa shrugged, "Well, perhaps he should have considered getting out of my way instead of trying to bar it," she sniffed, "where's Hildegard?"

The woman pursed her lips, "

Lady

Hildegard attends her Matriarch. I am Matron Livia."

"Whatever, Liv. Why am I here?"

Surprisingly, the woman gave a small chuckle, "You're as bad as your mother."

Narissa blinked, "You knew my mother?"

"Indeed. We never served together as such, for I followed a, um... different career path, but it was I who courted her for the position of First Sword for House Varro. It was a long time ago, and she refused me in the most colourful terms. You look much like her."

"First Sword, eh? She's that good?"

Livia drifted round to a small table that had been set by the window, "One of the best I'd ever laid eyes on," she gestured, "wine?"

"She served House Varro? Uh... yes."

Livia stared.

Narissa rolled her eyes, "Please."

Pouring a measure into two goblets, the woman made a languid gesture, "Choose your poison."

"What?"

The older woman smiled, "Just a turn of phrase. Drink from the jug if you harbour suspicions."

"It could all be poisoned."

Now it was Livia's turn to roll her eyes, "Of course, and doubtless, I spent the last few years building up a resistance for just such a moment. Truly, if I wanted you dead, I could think of at least a dozen easier and less convoluted ways to accomplish the deed just off the top of my head."

"Only a dozen?"

Livia chuckled, "I'm getting old, mayhap my wits are not so sharp as they once were."

"I'm sure. Pass me the wine then, but at least fill it with a full measure afore you do, and not some ludicrous tipplers amount, fit only for some of the delicate flowers you have wilting in these pampered halls."

"As you wish."

Filling the goblet to the brim, Livia proffered it to her guest, but as Narissa carefully lifted it from the tray, she arched a brow, "You'll not join me with an adult's cup, or do you settle for a child's half-measure?"

"You seek to get me drunk?"

"Pissed as a fart. We'll be singing in the halls and waving our knickers at the guards before I'm done."

"Why?"

"Because that way, I'm more likely to hear an honest reply to my questions."

Livia laughed, "And less likely to remember it, but have it your way."

Filling her goblet, she lifted it to her lips and, giving Narissa a wink, she began to drink "Sláinte."

***

"Hello, Maggie."

The cook gave a small shriek of surprise as the voice came from her side. She had been baking fish pie that morning, for she fancied that wee Cassie had not had much chance at tasting such, and doubtless, the fruit crumble she had made for dessert wouldn't go amiss none either. Taking a rest from filleting the fresh catch and mashing the tatties for the topping, she had stepped out the side door of the kitchen to take in a breath of fresh air when the voice came from the shadow.

Startled, she spun around, only to see a familiar figure sitting upon a stool in the lee of the doorway. The crone's eyes glittered with mischief, and she shook her head with a chuckle, "Easy lass," she grinned, "Why, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Maggie blew out a breath, "Och, 'tis yourself. Gave me quite the start, you did. "

"'Tis sorry I am."

The cook's eyes narrowed, though her smile was genuine, "Aye, you don't look it."

The old woman shrugged, but her grin broadened.

Maggie sighed, "Have ye eaten?"

"I've not supped today, no."

"Well, come on then, I made tattie soup yesterday, and second-day soup tastes best, as my ma would say. There's bread as well; fresh baked this mornin."

Stirring, the old woman smiled, "You're a kind woman, Maggie Cook."

"'Tis nothing. I'd not see a dog starve, let alone leave a hungry lass upon the doorstep."

"I know."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Leaning on her gnarled walking stick, the bent figure shuffled towards the kitchen door but paused as she glanced up at the iron horseshoe nailed to the lintel. She shook her head with a snort.

Maggie called back, "Come on in and have a seat at the table, lass. I'll fetch the soup."

With a smile, the Crone stepped across the threshold and looked about the kitchen, "A blessing upon this place. May the rains fall soft upon your fields."

Looking up from the pot, Maggie raised a brow, "Huh?"

"'Tis nothing, an old courtesy is all."

Setting a place, the cook offered her arm, "Here now, set yourself down, and we'll soon get you sorted out. I've not seen you since that awful place. What brings you hereabouts?"

"Aye, 'twas quite a day, that was. I was just passing by," she sighed, "the temple is gone now."

"Well, I'm glad."

The crone looked up, and for a moment, something might have stirred in those eyes, "Glad?"

Unnoticing, Maggie poured a steaming ladle of soup into the bowl, "Och, not like that, 'tis sorry I am about your home, but it wasn't right, an old woman like yourself living out in the wilds with nobody to look after her."

"Oh. Well, it had served its purpose, I suppose."

As she set bread and a chunk of butter before the woman, the cook continued to chatter, "Do you have a place to stay then? I can ask themselves if we can find a bed for ye. This is a big house. I'm sure there must be room."

"That is uncommon kind of ye, Mistress Cook, but," she chuckled, "I've been, um...

abiding

with my kin, so to speak."

"Aye, 'tis good to have family, especially at our age."

There was a snort, "Our age? Why, Maggie, you're still a young lass, and judging by the looks yon big lad over yonder keeps casting your ways, there's still some that find you comely."

Maggie cackled at the suggestion, "Och, away with ye! That big galumphin fool is the real cook hereabouts, but he's no a bad lad. Let's me use his kitchen, so he does," she nodded towards a cupboard. "I'm told he keeps a jug of potcheen in there if you fancy it."

"Oh, now Maggie, I'd never refuse a wee dram."

"I'll fetch ye a glass. You never did say what brought you to the door. I'm surprised the guards let ye in, to be honest, for things have been a wee bit strained of late."

"Och, I'm sure they'll be fine about it. And, in truth, I came to see you."

"Me?"

"Aye, well, I had an errand, and I was passing the door to this big House when I thought to myself, "I wonder how Maggie is doing; I never did thank her for that fine stew she fed me."

Maggie poured a measure into the glass, "Oh now, there's no need for thanks. The stew was already made, and like I say, I'd not see a lass going hungry."

"Well, so ye did. But I came across this bit o ribbon ye see, and I thought you might like to have it."

"Ribbon? Oh, I do like a bit of ribbon. I used to have a strand that I'd tie in my hair on festival days, but I lost it," she sighed, "my man, he was a sojer, so he was. He wrote me a letter saying how he'd got me some ribbon for my hair, but he was kilt afore he got home with it."

The Crone nodded and looked up from her soup, "Sorry I am, for bringing back bad memories, but here, wear it in good health."

"Red ribbon! And silk, too. My, 'tis a brazen woman they'll be calling me," she wiped the tear from her eyes, "do ye think the ribbon he bought me was maybe like this."

"Oh, I'd bet it was

exactly

like that," she stirred, "here, let me tie it in your hair. Och now, isn't that pretty."

Maggie smiled; it was shameful to be so vain, but she felt ten years younger, "Well, I'll wear it today, but then keep it for festivals."

The Crone grinned, "You do that, Maggie. Well, I still have my errands to attend to, so I must be away. Thank ye for the soup," she winked, "and the dram."

Smiling, the cook nodded, "Come back anytime, lass. There'll always be something on the stove for ye."