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“On our talk from the ship… it is not worth the risk. Do you understand?” you tell Ellyn. Escape now would be a needless risk. Better to remain with one who has done you and your kin no harm than to risk a ship with lacking in qualms enough to make port in this slaver's den.
“No need to fret, cousin. That is not the risk I have in mind right now,” Ellyn assures as she helps you to your feet.
“I saw quite a bit of your risk-taking last night,” you remind her.
“I know. You only reminded me half a hundred times,” she chides.
“I did not,” you quickly say, more for yourself than her.
“You did. Our friend was like to find a place even that Dornish hag hadn’t reached and you come mewling and tugging at my sleeve. Not very ladylike of you,” she continues, leaving you speechless. “But I still love you so and will forgive you if you would only tell me what you did to get him to buy you new clothes.”
“I… did nothing,” you tell her, still wrongfooted and dizzy. She looks at you with those bright blue eyes of hers. For a fleeting moment you see her brother in them and wonder how exactly he would react at her brazen words. Doubtless poorly.
“Truly? I had heard rumors, but it seemed a touch… as you say. My lady,” she awkwardly replies, though you find her hints to be very sobering.
“What rumors?” you demand. She makes to deny, but you repeat and insist. “What. Rumors.”
“Of Wensington… you know. Of your bed. I heard Eileen hushing the others over it,” Ellyn admits.
Rumors of your bed being cold for your faults. That you were shrewish and cold to your knightly husband despite his courtly affections and prowess on the field. Hearing your niece had heard of this makes it sting all the more. She never brought it up to you. Did she pity you? It was no great secret that your husband kept a lover before you were wed. It was the reason for the match to begin with. It was less known that he continued to do so after you were wed. To greater scandal for those of Wensington’s halls he even sired bastards on her, a groom’s daughter, while leaving you fruitless. So many unanswered prayers at the Mother’s altar. Ser Malcolm was not intentionally cruel to you, though, only indirectly so. You did all you could to be a good wife and were occasionally shown the favor you thought you deserved. There were moments, usually when a good tourney was afoot, in which he would show you more attention and, after enough wine, would take his pleasure of you. Each time you finally dared to hope the past was over, but he would always distance himself after. He would turn formal and leave you with some small gift that you would wish to burn. It seems all of this must follow you even now across the Narrow Sea with your husband long dead.
