Master of Dragons (32 page)

The food was a
disappointment, for Evelina had expected peacock’s tongues, and all she got was
plain roast beef.

“And now I think I
will go have a look about the palace,” Evelina stated.

“That is quite out
of the question, Mistress,” said the axe-faced woman in an iron tone. “Her
Majesty is coming to pay you a visit. You must wait here.”

Evelina felt a
tingle of delight. The Queen, coming to see her. She sat down in one of the
chairs to wait.

She waited.

And waited.

The axe-faced
woman sat in a chair in steely silence, tatting lace. Evelina felt it beneath
her dignity to converse with a servant, so she also sat in silence. She spent
some time admiring her new clothes and her new shoes, but one could do that for
only so long.

She went from
being pleased to bored and from bored to irritated. And then she heard distant
sounds—music! Somewhere people were feasting and dancing. She was thinking of
defying Axe-Face and walking out, going to see if she could find Marcus, when
she heard a rustle of silk and footsteps outside the door and smelled a
fragrance as of spring roses. Axe-Face rose to her feet.

Evelina tried to
calm her racing heart. Her future would be settled in this one moment.

The Queen came
alone. She opened the door, entered, and said something to the woman, who
curtsied deeply and went out. The Queen shut the door behind her. She glanced
about the room, as though to make certain that all was well, then turned to
face Evelina.

“Well, Mistress,”
said the Queen, giving her a dimpled smile, “are you settling in?”

Evelina made an
awkward curtsy, as the servant had instructed her. She started to sit down,
then remembered just in time that the servant had also warned her that no one
sat while in Her Majesty’s presence. Evelina remained standing, her head
lowered, all the while studying the Queen intently from beneath her eyelashes.

Evelina had always
considered other members of her own sex to be weak, stupid creatures, and the
Queen was no exception. Evelina saw a plump, overfed, middle-aged woman clad in
bejew-eled splendor, pampered and protected and silly. Evelina had no doubt at
all about who would win this encounter.

“Yes, Your
Majesty,” Evelina replied meekly, with another curtsy She launched into her
speech. “I did not expect to be so honored. I’m not a fine lady, you know, ma’am—though
I’m often taken for such. I am a good girl, however. I was given a godly
upbringing by my poor father, may the saints in heaven rest his soul. If I did
anything wrong, it was for love. I love your son, ma’am, with all my heart.”

Evelina gave a sob
at this juncture, and wiped her eyes.

“Yes, I’m sure you
do love my son,” the Queen said. “He is a prince. He is handsome and rich and
he rescued you from a terrifying situation. That is enough to turn any girl’s
head.”

“And he loves me,
ma’am,” Evelina felt bold enough to assert.

“You are quite
pretty, child. I’ve no doubt that he did fancy himself in love with you,” the
Queen said gently. “And now you believe yourself to be pregnant with his child?”

“I think it is
likely, ma’am,” said Evelina. She placed her hand on her flat belly. “I’ve been
feeling sickish of late.”

The Queen’s
dimples flashed, then vanished. Evelina began to feel nervous.

“I know we made
love just the once,” she continued defensively, having first thought she would
lie about this, then deciding she wouldn’t. “But a girl knows these things, ma’am.”
She let a tear trickle down her cheek.

“Yes, well, we
will see about that,” said the Queen. “I want you to know, Mistress, that I do
not defend my son’s actions. They were not those of a gentleman. However, you
are both young and you were thrown together in an extraordinary situation, so
that I can envision how this all came about. You must understand, Mistress
Evelina, that marriage to my son is impossible.”

“
I don’t
know that, ma’am,” Evelina said boldly. “Your son loves me and I love him.
True, I’m not a fine lady, but I could learn to be—”

“My son is
betrothed to another,” said the Queen. “The Lady Izabelle, daughter of an earl.”

If the woman had
knocked her down with a right hook to the jaw, Evelina could not have been more
astonished. She was literally rocked back on the heels of her new shoes. The
thought of this had never occurred to her.

“He never told me
that, Your Majesty!” Evelina gasped and she burst into sobs. “He lied to me!”

“My son did not
know himself,” the Queen returned. “The marriage was arranged in his absence.
This must seem harsh to you, but it is the way of the world, Mistress Evelina.
You will remain here in the castle until we know for certain whether or not you
are pregnant. If you are, we will care for you and your child. Marriage with
some good man ...”

Evelina had
stopped listening to the woman’s yammering. A rival! Evelina didn’t believe for
one moment that this marriage had been arranged without Marcus’s knowledge. He
knew! He’d used her! He’d made her fall in love with him! The wormwood in his
wine was suddenly justified. Her fisherman lover faded conveniently from her
mind. Marcus was a prince. He could do what he wanted. If he wanted to marry
her, he had only to make it a royal decree or a royal edict or a papal bull or whatever
and it would happen. Who would dare tell him no? It was this other woman. The
thin, pasty-faced little slut. She was the reason he wouldn’t marry her.

All this flashed
through Evelina’s mind in a second. The Queen was still talking, saying something
about Marcus riding off to war, but that she would be safe in the castle. All
the ladies of the court were remaining.

Evelina said, in a
half-choked voice, “Including the Lady Izabelle?”

“Yes, but don’t
worry. The castle is quite a large place. The two of you do not ever have to
meet—”

“Oh, I would like
to meet her, Your Majesty,” said Evelina softly.

The Queen
departed. Axe-Face returned.

When Evelina told
the woman, experimentally, that she would like to have some air, Axe-Face
marched her up and down an empty corridor, never taking her eyes off her, not
permitting her to speak to anyone, making certain no one spoke to her. Then
Axe-Face returned Evelina to her room, shut the door, and locked it.

Evelina
understood. While she was in the palace, she would be a prisoner. They would
not let her talk to Marcus or even see him.

Evelina snuggled
into her warm, dry bed that night and said to herself softly, “We’ll see about
that.”

THE NEXT MORNING,
MARCUS AND HIS FATHER AND A SMALL contingent of knights and footsoldiers left
the city. They traveled light, marching swiftly for the border that separated
Idylswylde from her neighbor Weinmauer and also from Dragonkeep. The nearest
outpost was Aston Castle, home of Crown Prince Wilhelm, Marcus’s eldest
half-brother. King Edward had sent the prince an urgent message, telling him as
much of the truth as he thought his son likely to believe, commanding him to
send his troops to the northwest, toward the hitherto unknown city of
Dragonkeep, where the prince was to deploy his men as he saw fit.

The king’s army
set out beneath a gray sky, for the rain that had soaked Evelina the day before
continued to fall and, according to the weather-watchers, was likely to fall
all that day. They rode with their hats pulled low to keep the rainwater out of
their eyes. The bright-colored standards flapped sullenly in wind gusts that
drove the cold rain into their faces. There was no talking among the knights or
jesting or boasting of past deeds of glory. The bad weather probably had much
to do with this, though Marcus felt their silence was darker and more sinister.

He had been
present when his father had tried to explain the nature of this enemy to a few
trusted knights. Some were professional soldiers, others landed nobles; all
were friends and comrades of the king, men who had known Marcus all his life.
He saw the shock and incredulity in their eyes as his father told them, in a
calm and steady voice, about the kingdom hidden by dragon-magic, about warriors
who wielded magic given to them by dragons. A few knew the king well enough to
voice their skepticism aloud, asking how Edward knew all this, and—when he
mentioned his son—their incredulity hardened to disbelief.

Most of these men
thought privately—and some muttered aloud—that they were being led on a wild
goose chase by a lunatic.

Marcus began to
wonder himself if this was true. He had lied to his father. He hadn’t actually
seen this army of dragon warriors with his own eyes, though he’d assured Edward
he had. Marcus had seen them with his mind’s eye. As a child, he’d seen many
terrible and wonderful sights with that eye, sights that had been the dreams of
dragons. What if this was a dragon’s dream? Or a drunkard’s dream? Whenever
Marcus thought of Evelina and the wine, he flushed in shame. What if the army
marched all this way and found nothing at the end?

True, Draconas had
confirmed what he’d seen, but Draconas was a dragon, and could he be trusted?
He’d as much as admitted that he’d taken Marcus to Dragonkeep as bait in order
to lure out the dragon. And he’d made it clear that what he did, he did for
love of his own kind, not for love of humans. Perhaps Draconas was playing his
own game.

Marcus knew his
father had doubts, though Edward had said nothing to him. The king was taking an
immense risk, believing in his son—a son who was having difficulty believing in
himself. True, Edward had seen the mad monks. He’d seen illusion magic at
work—Draconas had once knocked the king through what he’d perceived to be a
stone wall. But that was a long way from believing in magic that could hide an
entire city from sight for hundreds of years and field an army of warriors with
the blood of dragons in their veins.

As Marcus rode at
the head of his own force—the Prince’s Own, a troop of knights who had been
rewarded for service to the crown by being given the honor of escorting the
prince—he looked into a future that was bleak and gray as the day.

He did not know
what to wish for. If he hoped for vindication, then it was likely that he and
many of these men riding with him would die. If he wished it to be nothing more
than a dream, his fattier had mustered his army at great expense for nothing,
and news that the prince was mad would spread like wildfire. His parents would
have to shut him up in a monastery to silence the outcry and keep him from
further disgracing his family. Thinking of this, Marcus deemed a metal dart in
the throat preferable.

He rode by
himself, keeping his distance from his escorts, who—truth to tell—were not
disposed to be on a friendly basis with the young man. The knights, led by Sir
Troeven had vowed before God and their king that they would lay down their
lives for their prince if need be. They hadn’t taken any oath to be his friend.

Edward was
concerned about his son. Marcus knew that, for he saw his father casting
worried glances in his direction. Marcus pretended he didn’t notice. He much
preferred to keep himself to himself.

By afternoon,
however, when Marcus had not said a word to anyone and had given away his food
to a pack of delighted urchins and their dogs, Edward fell back from his
position at the head of the army to join his son. Raising his voice to be heard
over the drumming rain, he said, in companionable tones, “What did you think of
the Lady Izabelle?”

Marcus blinked his
eyes to clear them of rainwater and dragged his thoughts back from the gloomy
prospect before him to wonder what he did think of the young woman who was
going to be his wife. The truth was, he’d been so preoccupied and worried that
he hadn’t given her much thought at all.

Perhaps his father
guessed as much for he added, louder still, “By your silent preoccupation all
day, my son, I take it you’ve been thinking of little else except her lovely
face.”

Marcus took the
hint. “She is truly very beautiful, Father,” he said, trying to sound as
enthusiastic as possible.

And he had to give
his mother credit. The Lady Izabelle was lovely. She was sweet, gentle, and
graceful, and if she wasn’t madly in love with him now, she was prepared to be.
He had taken her on a walk around the balustrades and they had viewed the
famous cannons. There had been dinner—a grand affair, served in the great hall.
There was music and dancing, with the lady as his partner.

After that, his
mother had suggested that he and the lady play a game of chess, which neither
proved to be very good at, perhaps because neither was paying much attention.
Gunderson and Sir Troeven and some of the other knights had drifted off to one
part of the hall. Marcus spent much of his time watching them and wondering
what they were saying. He kept having to force himself to make polite
conversation and to move his chess pieces when he was supposed to.

Lady Izabelle was
likewise preoccupied. When it occurred to him that a long time had passed
between them in silence, he found her staring into the fire, her expression
grave. When the Queen rose to her feet and summoned her ladies to her, freeing
Marcus to go to his father, the lady made him a graceful bow, gave him an
enigmatic smile, and glided off to join Her Majesty without a backward look.

Edward rode closer
to Marcus to have a private conversation, their words covered by the rattle and
clank of harness and bridle and the crackle of thunder.

“What do you truly
think of her?” Edward asked.

“She is quite nice,
Father,” Marcus answered, thinking, even as he said it, that this was hardly
the rapturous praise of an ardent lover.

Edward must have
remembered his own courtship, which had lasted a quarter of an hour, for he and
Ermintrude had been introduced, wedded, then bedded all in the same day.