Mistress of Dragons (38 page)

She
wanted to tell him, in these moments, that whatever he had done, she was his
wife and she loved him and would forgive him. Instinct—the same instinct that
woke her in the night and led her to the bed of a sick child—held her back. In
his own time, his own way, he would tell her. Until then, she must bide her
time and be patient and go on loving him and showing him that she did.

Several
months passed thus.

The
river carried autumn’s dead leaves upon its bosom, ran dark through winter
snows. When the snows melted and the river swelled with the spring runoff, when
the crocus and the squill bloomed, Edward grew restless, ill-at-ease. He seemed
to be waiting for someone or something, for every time he heard a horse’s
hooves clattering in the courtyard, he hastened to the window, looked out
expectantly.

Gunderson
knew Edward was waiting for Draconas. Ermintrude guessed it.

Gunderson
had not liked what he’d heard of Draconas’s part in their adventures. He found
many of Draconas’s actions deeply suspect and he bluntly told His Majesty so.
Edward admitted that he had doubts about Draconas himself, but there was no one
else on whom he could rely. Gunderson would have dearly loved to tell his king
to forget this woman, forget the dalliance and its possible outcome. Men
fathered bastards every day and thought no more of it than the barnyard cat.
Edward had not been raised to think like that, however, and Gunderson was proud
of him for behaving thus honorably, even though at night, in private, Gunderson
prayed to God that the woman would never be found.

Ermintrude
prayed simply that whatever was going to happen would happen, as one prays on a
hot and sultry day that the storm will break and bring relief.

Edward
gave Gunderson orders that Draconas was to be brought to him immediately, no
matter if it were day or night. Edward had just concluded hosting a banquet for
his father-in-law, the king of Weinmauer, who came ostensibly to pay homage to
his son for his heroics. In reality Weinmauer nosed about, whispered in the ears
of several border lords and made vague promises, hoping to persuade them to
shift allegiance. One and all, they held true their king, however, and
Weinmauer would eventually leave disappointed.

The
guests had departed. Those sober enough to walk on their own had stumbled off
to their beds. Those who needed assistance had been hauled away by the
servants. Edward and Ermintrude had retired to their family quarters, but they
had not yet gone to bed. They sat before the fire, laughing over her father’s
discomfiture, for their spies had brought them all the details of his failed
intrigue. Ermintrude was mulling spiced wine, when Gunderson came to the door,
summoned Edward with a look.

“Excuse
me, my dear,” said Edward, turning to her, as she stood holding the warm mug in
her hand, her smile tremulous on her lips. “Pressing business calls me away. Do
not wait up for me.”

He
left before she could say a word. She sat down in her chair and gazed at the
fire, watching the flames devour the wood, the logs crumble and dwindle and
blacken.

Edward
and Gunderson hastened out into the courtyard. The night was still chill, but
there was a smell of spring in the air. They went to the stable, where
Gunderson had stashed the visitor. He lit a lantern, flashed it about to make
sure no one else was around.

“We’re
alone,” he reported.

“Draconas?”
Edward called into the darkness, into the smell of hay and horses.

Draconas
stepped out of the shadows. He looked the same as he had always looked. Edward
did not.

“Has
Your Majesty been ill?” Draconas asked.

“Just
anxious,” said Edward, passing it off quickly. “What news, Draconas? Have you
found her?”

“I
have,” said Draconas with equanimity.

“Is
she . . .”

“She
is,” said Draconas.

“I
knew it,” said Edward softly. “Somehow 1 knew it. Is she safe? Well?”

Draconas
nodded yes to all, though in that he was lying.

“You
gave her the money?”

“She
would not take it,” said Draconas, and handed back the money pouch.

Edward
absently stroked the leather with his hands. He sighed. “I hoped she might, but
I didn’t think she would.”

His
heart cried out to ask Draconas where she was, but he had promised he would not
and he kept that promise.

He
could not help but question wistfully, “Did she say anything about me? Send any
message? Is there nothing I can do for her, Draconas, maybe without her
knowing?”

Draconas
did not immediately answer. His gaze shifted to Gunderson, standing silent in
the darkness. Gunderson saw in the man’s eyes what he was about to say and
Draconas saw in Gunderson’s eyes the asking not to say it.

Draconas
ignored him. He had spent a most unpleasant several days in the presence of an
extremely angry Anora, who had, as he had anticipated, threatened him with the
loss of his ability to walk among humans unless he ceased what she termed his “regrettably
weak and sentimental human behavior” in regard to Melisande.

He
might well have ignored that, for much as he admired and respected Anora, she
could never understand what it was like to live in two bodies, in two different
worlds. Something else had happened, however, something that had hardened
Draconas’s heart to all humans and their little problems.

Braun
was dead.

As
with his father, the death had been made to look like an accident. The young
dragon’s gleaming-scaled body had been discovered lying in a field, his neck
broken. Charred and burned patches on his body seemed to indicate that he’d
been struck by lightning, as sometimes happened if dragons were caught in
thunderstorms. The Parliament brought in a verdict of accidental death.
Draconas knew better, and so did Anora.

Draconas
had told Braun, right before his death, that he had found Melisande and he’d
told Braun where she was hiding, so that the dragon could help guard her. All
that information would have been plainly visible in Braun’s mind, visible to
his killer.

“Melisande
wants only one thing from you, Your Majesty,” said Draconas.

“Anything,”
said Edward earnestly, clasping the leather bag in his hands.

“She
wants you to take her baby and raise him in your household.”

“I
will,” said Edward at once.

“Your
Majesty,” Gunderson remonstrated, “please consider—”

“No,
my friend. I must do this,” Edward said in a tone that brooked no contraction.

“You
do not need to claim the child,” Gunderson persisted. “I know of a respectable
peasant family who—”

Edward
cut him off with a gesture. “What are the arrangements, Draconas?”

“Someone
will come to fetch you or whomever you send”—Draconas glanced at Gunderson—”and
take you to the baby. You will ask no questions. You will take the child and
make no attempt to find Melisande. Ever.”

Edward
hesitated. Draconas eyed him.

“Agreed,”
said Edward at last, reluctantly.

Draconas
pulled on a pair of leather gloves, picked up his staff.

“You
will stay the night, of course, Draconas,” said Edward belatedly. “I would give
you a room in the castle, but my father-in-law is visiting and there would be
the need for explanations—”

“Thank
you, but I cannot stay,” Draconas said brusquely. “It was difficult for me to
get away this long, but I wanted to prepare you.”

Since
Braun’s death, he had not let Melisande out of his sight. As for bringing the
child into Edward’s family, Draconas had persuaded Anora to this course of
action. The one piece of information that Grald had not ripped from Draconas’s
mind was Edward: who he was, where he came from. Grald had not been interested
in that, nor was the dragon interested in Edward now. Why should he? Grald
believed that he had slain the lover.

Anora
had still wanted to keep the child and the mother as prisoners, for their own
safety, of course. Braun’s murder had convinced her otherwise. Anora herself
was in danger, for she knew too much, and there was no reason to think that she
could protect the mother and the child. She might actually bring harm to them,
for Grald and Maristara had seen that very plan in Draconas’s mind and in Braun’s.

Stashing
the child in a royal human household, where he could be guarded by royal
bodyguards, was the best possible solution. Draconas would have access to him
as he grew, and he would be the only one. Not even Anora would know where the
child was hidden.

“One
other caveat, Your Majesty,” said Draconas, as he reached the stable door. “You
can never tell anyone the circumstances of this child’s birth or its parentage.
That includes the child himself.”

“But
if it is a boy and he favors me, people will know—”

“People
may guess, but they will not know. Since you are the king, they will keep their
guesses to themselves. This is for the child’s own sake. Consider who might be
searching for him.”

“Gunderson
already knows the truth,” said Edward. “And I must tell Ermintrude. It’s only
fair. She will be the child’s mother.”

Draconas
was frowningly dubious.

“I
think she suspects anyhow,” Edward added with a half-smile. “I’m not a very
good dissembler.”

“I
am against it, but what you do in your marriage is your own business,” said
Draconas with an ungracious shrug. “The child’s safety is paramount. If any
hint ever arose—”

“It
will not,” said Edward firmly.

“You
will be hearing from me,” Draconas promised, and he walked out the door and
disappeared into the night.

Edward
returned to his chambers. Ermintrude rose to meet him. At the sight of his
face, so pale and troubled and careworn, she went up to him and took his hands
and folded them in her own, pressed them to her lips.

“My
dear,” he said softly, “could you love a child that is mine, but not yours?”

“Is
that what all this has been about?” she asked him, her tone mild and gently
rebuking. “Is that why you have quit eating and prowl about in the foul airs of
the night? All for that?”

“I
have no right to seek your forgiveness, but the child is blameless and the
mother asks that I take him—”

“My
own,” Ermintrude interrupted, “you are not the first husband to stray, nor will
you be the last. A child should be raised in the father’s house. Bring the babe
and I will love him or her as dearly as our Wilhelm and our Harry.”

Edward
could not speak, his heart was too full. He held her close and felt his great
burden of shame and guilt drop off of him. He came to her bed that night and,
though they did not make love, they held each other and talked all through the
night until, his remorse eased, he fell peacefully asleep, his head on her
bosom.

Ermintrude
lay awake, staring into the gray morning and when he could not see them, the
tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

The
wound he’d inflicted on her bled freely, but that was good, for it meant that
it would not turn poisonous.

IF
EDWARD HAD KNOWN, HE COULD HAVE WALKED TO Melisande’s house, for she was living
near Bramfell, in a small village known as Sheepcote, so named because its
inhabitants worked with either sheep or their by-products. The village was a
collection of small, snug stone houses built by the owner of the local factory
where weavers assembled to turn the wool into cloth. The factory was a
relatively new innovation. By custom, weavers had worked out of their homes,
but that meant that the wool had to be hauled to the individual houses, which
were scattered all over the countryside, and the finished goods brought back to
the warehouses. Collecting the weavers together in one location saved both time
and money and it allowed the weavers the pleasure of socializing as they
worked.

When
Melisande had discovered she was pregnant, she had insisted that they travel to
Idlyswylde.

“I
will not be able to care for the babe,” she said to Bellona. “A son should grow
up in his father’s house.”

Bellona
had argued, but not for very long or very hard. Melisande had never truly
recovered from her ordeal. Her body mended, for she was young and strong, but
her spirit was shattered, like a blooming rose struck by an early, killing
frost. Her pregnancy was difficult. She was constantly sick, could keep nothing
down. The midwife said comfortably that this was normal in the first three
months and, though it was not quite so normal in the months following, she had
known such cases and the women had all delivered fine, healthy babes.

Bellona
doubted, though she said nothing. She watched Melisande grow bigger and weaker
every day, as though the babe was sucking the very life out of her, and fear
gripped her.

When
they first arrived in Sheepcote, Melisande took a job in the factory as a
weaver. As her pregnancy started to become obvious, she had to remain at home,
for it wasn’t considered seemly for a woman in her condition to be out working.
She had a talent for embroidery and fine stitchery, however, and the factory
owner, quick to notice this, found her seamstress work among the nobility and
the well-to-do of the upper-middle class of Bromfell.

In
between her work, she wove a blanket for her baby and it was during this time,
as she plied her loom, that she was happiest, often singing softly to herself,
a song about springtime.

Bellona
masqueraded as Melisande’s husband, a role she preferred, for she had seen how
women were treated in this society—as chattel and property. She adopted men’s
clothing and, due to her musculature and superb physical condition, she easily
passed for a handsome, clean-shaven young man. She could not stand sheep, however,
nor anything connected with them. Her skills as an archer won her a position as
a forester, for the king had some fine hunting grounds located nearby, and her
job was to see that no one poached the royal deer. Roaming the forests meant
that she was often away from home, away from Melisande, but they needed the
money to get them through the hard winter and Melisande assured her that she
did not mind being by herself.