• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 375 0

linen chemise, of which she had three. They were fine; they were quite comfortable and very soft and lovely on her almost-raw skin. She would have enjoyed them except that they gave no support to her breasts whatsoever. Then came the undergowns, with tight sleeves—so tight she could never have drawn a bow or swung a sword or an ax in the wretched things. That was not fine. It didn’t at all matter that they were of a perfectly lovely linen and wool mixed, as soft as the chemise. It didn’t matter that they had grand bands of embroidery of a sort she could never do herself. It didn’t even matter that every woman who looked at them sighed with naked longing. Because they were an absolute horror to wear.

Nor was it fine that they dragged on the ground behind, making them exceedingly impractical anywhere outside. Still, she could kirtle them up . . .

But then there were the overgowns, with wider, shorter sleeves and more bands of heavy embroidery on them. They were just wide enough that she had to try to keep the edges of the sleeves from drooping into things and getting filthy.

And last of all came the wide, embroidered belt, that she was supposed to tie as tightly as possible to show off her small waist and push up her breasts (though it gave them no support at all), from which dangled keys, a knife for eating, pouches for this and that—

On top of all this there was the mantle, which was not a practical cloak, oh no, but a great awkward rectangle of fabric that she was supposed to drape becomingly about her waist, and arms, and sometimes over her head.

Finally, as a last insult, a fur-lined overmantle she was supposed to pin at the shoulders over this entire mess of cloth; it didn’t even close properly at the front, so she would stew at the back and freeze at the front.

So there were all these swaths of cloth to manage, and the tight arms of the undergown, and the dangling bits on the belt, and it seemed as if she was catching some part of the outfit on something whenever she moved. She had never felt so sorry for other women in her life. She felt even sorrier for herself.

Nevertheless, she was a king’s daughter and a war chief, and she was not going to allow herself to be defeated by mere fabric.

So she did what anyone with sense would do. She put it all on and practiced. Practiced walking, walking quickly, moving about indoors and out, maneuvering around furniture, eating, carrying things—she couldn’t possibly do most of the household chores that other women did in this stuff, but, then, she wouldn’t have to. Cooking, cleaning, all that would be done for her. The High King’s queen did not even have the duties that Queen Eleri had had (and Queen Eleri had dressed much more simply, with one chemise, an overgown, and in the cold, a good heavy cloak). She even practiced some dancing, and riding—and with some teeth gritting, being carried pillion behind a rider. And the others, anxious for her success, helped her. They had some little time; although the High King wanted her father’s horses a great deal, he was less anxious to leap into a third marriage, and so the negotiations and bargaining went on through the autumn, and only concluded when the first snow fell. So she would go to the High King as his new bride a bare four months after the death of his second.

And by then she was the master, or perhaps mistress, of her own clothing. She moved as gracefully in it as Cataruna, if not more so. She had managed to contrive a breast-binding that at least made her chest stop aching. It might not be the height of fashion, but she didn’t care. It was one comfort she would have.

By then, too, she had learned how to carry on a conversation that did not involve two or three ways to kill a man, nor how to track game, nor the three best remedies for horse colic. Her childhood skill with a needle had come back to her, though she was never going to be able to embroider with any level of competence. She had learned a great many songs that did not involve any marching cadences nor randy bed frolics. In one thing at least, her warrior