‘Tis said that in a woman’s solar the course of wars and the fate of countries is decided.
‘Tis also said that therein is determined the fate of men and the manner of their course to a woman’s bed.
Lianna of Grasleigh suspected that a woman had said the former and a man the latter, for ’twas a certainty that no man she knew would have accorded a woman the cleverness to determine the destiny of his realm. But if any man had heard the plotting and scheming going on behind her, he would have perhaps thought differently. At the very least, he would have quivered in fear for the fate of his own poor soul.
“Bind him,” suggested the first of the other women in the solar.
“Nay, lure him,” said the second.
“Help him slip into his cups, lure him, and then bind him,” said the third. Then she gulped in surprise, as if that thought were too bold a one to voice.
Lianna let the peat smoke, perfumed oils, and stratagem flow over her. She had no stomach for joining in the talk—not that the ladies behind her would have allowed it. A member of court though she might be by command of the king, she was not accepted by that court. It had troubled her at first, that shunning, but she had grown accustomed to it. Besides, ’twas better that she keep to the work under her hands. Let the tapestry of the court be woven without her single thread running through it. She had her own pattern to see to.
