The Dragons' Chosen (8 page)

When I didn’t leave, George raised his eyes to mine, questioning. I reached over, patting Winter’s mane to cover my embarrassment. “I never said thank you.”

George exchanged a glance with Michael before speaking. “Nothing to speak of, My Lady. We protect our own. We could see he was up to no good.”

“But you didn’t have to. You should have been off enjoying a pint of ale.”

George nodded. “We have daughters too. He’s not worth the backside of a bullock’s bastard.” He flashed a discomforted look at me. “Begging your pardon, My Lady.”

Impulsively, I grabbed his hand. “George, you do not need to beg my pardon. If anything, I need to beg yours. It was my inattention that put me in that situation.”

His ears reddened. “No, My Lady, ’tis nothing to mention. At your age I got into foolish scrapes way worse.” His whole face and neck turned a dull red. “Not that I’m thinking we’re alike in any way, or that you were foolish,” he stammered.

I fixed him with a look. “No, you’re right. I made a foolish choice.”

George protested, “It was something anyone might have done, My Lady.”

Anyone who hadn’t been raised as had I, perhaps.

“I’m no longer who I was. Please, you don’t need to be so formal.”

Michael looked at me from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “You’re our princess—for the duration of this journey and beyond.”

Something snapped inside me. This journey also affected these men. Men whom I had all but ignored.

I stood tall, comprehending. Yes, I was going to my death, but they would take the guilt back with them, living with it day after day, year upon year.

“And you need to know that while I am your princess, you are my men. Not my father’s—mine.”

At their glance toward the captain, I clarified. “Oh, not to command. But in my heart. All of you are held there. For this journey and beyond.” I placed a single kiss on each of their cheeks.

Captain Marcus called for us to mount up, jerking the three of us back to the open road.

George hovered near me for the rest of the day. He whistled merry tunes, winking at me in comradeship each time he trotted by on his horse. After our exchange, I exerted myself, engaging the men in simple pleasantries, embarrassed by my recent discourteousness. Small changes, a polite hello and thank you; simple recognition of the men who were part of this endeavor. I pushed myself to stop acting listless and aloof and instead to see, really see, the others in this group. I made it my task to enquire after my men by name, to ask their opinion, to ask for their thoughts. In the days after leaving the Castle Ilmington, I saw them looking at me differently, as if seeing me not as a duty but as someone worthy of conversation.

At one stop, a small posy of wildflowers appeared upon my saddle. Michael and Jeremy stood nonchalantly nearby, bright yellow pollen dusting their shirtfronts. As the days passed, a dozen kindnesses lifted my spirits. One afternoon, slices of dried apple mysteriously appeared on my folded cloak, and that night five of the men entertained me with an impromptu mummer’s play. The following evening, a chessboard was unrolled, like a tiny carpet, as it had on many nights, but this time
I
was challenged to play the winner. Even though I worked hard not to beat Ethan too badly, they tormented him all the rest of the evening.

“Losing to a slip of a girl,” Jeremy snickered, but now, I was one of them. These men, commoners all, extended themselves, sharing their private stashes of supplies with me, for no recompense. They knew my destiny but shed no false tears and spoke no soothing words to feed my sorrow. These men weren’t looking for an opportunity to further their own status through me. There was no favor to curry in seeing me to this end. And still they gave of themselves, and I felt honored—and loved.

With a single unpleasant incident, many of my assumptions had collapsed. It became clear to me that not all nobles were, well, noble, and that some of the common people were—noble, that is.

Halfway into the week, George trotted up alongside me. Lucinda watched him with a warning set to her eyes. He whistled as if nothing were on his mind. “Your Highness,” he finally said.

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“Just thought you ought to know, all men aren’t like that. That’s all.” He tipped his hat and cantered off. As I watched him lope away, some of the strain of the week peeled away.

I had never spent much time in the company of men, never noticed how truly different they were. As I emerged from my initial fog of despair, I started to observe them. Their hearty camaraderie was not much different from Harold and Bartholomew’s, a pleasant change from my dithering ladies-in-waiting. I loved to hear them guffaw, snort and chortle, none of the polite tittering behind an open fan. Once they relaxed around me, my language expanded in interesting ways.

I found observing their antics habit-forming. Watching them became my entertainment, my distraction. George stayed sunny and optimistic. Michael, Jonathan and Sam argued constantly about the best way to hunt boar, whether with hounds or beaters or both. Each endeavored to get me to side with them in the debate. Ever serious Ethan with his high forehead and narrow nose confided to me his worries about his young daughters.

Lawrence, Jeremy, Charles and Douglas were forever playing pranks and teasing each other. I was hard pressed not to laugh when Charles tied one of my pink satin bows on the tail of Captain Markus’s horse. Oh yes, I had given him the bow.

What sympathy, guilt or anger the men felt at my situation, they hid it well, showing me their caring with smiles and kindness.

It was hard to stay frightened all the time.

The dragons were waiting, I knew, and I wondered what, if anything, the beasts thought. My thoughts veered to them more and more often, not out of self-pity but from true curiosity about those huge creatures. I knew next to nothing about them. I didn’t know where they came from or how long they stayed. Ever since Frederick’s ending remark that I would “die a virgin,” I wondered about the dragons and myself.

Did dragons prefer virgins? It did bring up questions. There was the book hidden away in my saddle bags. I wondered if those ancient pages answered any of these questions. Part of me wanted to know and part wished to remain ignorant.

During the days when the sun was up and the morning was soft with dew, I could escape and pretend I was on a lovely jaunt into the woods.

Mostly, I watched the sky, patted my horse, sang little songs in my head, and observed the exchanges between the men. Each evening around the camp’s fire, the whines of the cicadas harmonized with the snorting, spitting and snoring of the men. Their risqué jokes had me laughing aloud as we sat eating our evening meal. Lucinda glared at them but they were unrepentant.

I told no one of my nights when all my terrors surrounded me. Sleep would come and with it dreams of sharp, tearing teeth and claws. I would awake sweating and trembling, my breath coming fast and hard as if I had been running. I would cradle the pawn my father had given me; smooth out my official signed documents; and try to envision a different end game. But the dreams kept coming and I would greet daybreak with the joy of one for whom a pardon is received moments before the executioner raises his axe.

--

I was lost in thought when Captain Markus called a halt to rest the horses. The afternoon sun was scurrying westward. A beautiful meadow, strewn with orange and purple wild flowers, stretched out before us.

I dismounted and handed Winter’s reins to Jeremy. Lucinda clambered off her horse, landing heavily with a nasty twist to her ankle. She shrugged aside Malcolm and Douglas’ offers of help and went on about her duties, cooking supper, laying out my supplies while the men set up camp. I sat stitching my embroidery as Lucinda limped by.

At our evening meal, she hobbled over with my meal: some unfortunate rabbit one of the men had shot, together with a lovely fresh trout. Not royal fare, but truly wonderful after a full day in the saddle.

I put my plate down, observing my entourage. How could I have overlooked this? They were also tired and hungry. I noticed Malcolm, bedding down Winter and Dumpling, and Michael’s weary yawn as he went about setting up my tent.

Lucinda hobbled back with the tea kettle. "Sit down," I said. “You need to rest.”

She shrugged, pushing a mug of tea into my hand and made her way back to the fire. I got up and followed her. Enough. No longer would I sit as if behind canopied stands. This, for now, was my life.

“You’ll do me no good if you don’t take care of yourself.” I practically dragged Lucinda to the side of the fire and sat her on a log, propping her leg up. “Sit here and rest. Tomorrow, well, we’ll see,” I said. She shook her head impatiently and started to get up again.

I placed my hand on her shoulder. “No, truly, I wish you to rest. This is only the beginning of the wilderness. You must heal so that when I need you—and I will—I can count on your strength.” She relented then, her face ash-white with pain.

I poured her a cup of tea from the kettle, burning my finger in the process.

By the next morning, Lucinda’s ankle had swollen up like a gourd. Captain Markus examined it, declaring it a bad sprain but nothing more. I rose early, restless, and yet more awake then I had ever been. I stirred the fire and put on a kettle of water as I had seen the men do. Lucinda limped over, using a stick to balance. I firmly pointed back to the log and shook my head.

No longer was I the fragile princess who required everyone to wait on her. She was gone and would never return.

Winter whickered as I brought his morning bran. He plunged his head deep in the bucket once I placed it down. Dumpling stamped his feathered hooves and nudged me with his huge head, encouraging me to hurry with his food.

It was a good thing that Dumpling was steady. He snorted once as the air before him spun when Chris materialized almost under his nose. I stood still, holding Dumpling’s feed, not sure what to say or do, though the relief and distress on my face must have shown. She rushed to my side, wearing a sleeveless chemise that declared, “Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition.” A shawl of some kind wrapped around her arms. Her legs were bare from knee to thigh with a short strip of clothing above that one couldn’t call a skirt, and boots that laced up the front to her knees.

She looked at my face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so caught up with exams and papers, then I couldn’t find the card and….”

I couldn’t stop a tear from trickling down. Here was the only person who had given me reason to hope.

From the corner of my eyes, I saw my men gather about us but my attention remained with Chris.

Her voice lowered to a whisper, a plea. “I couldn’t accept that you were real. I’m so sorry.” She grabbed my hand and I let her, her hand so tight on mine she almost snapped in half the golden card she cradled within her fingers. It seemed silly to stand on formality under the circumstances.

“Step away, Your Highness.” The captain’s voice interrupted our reunion. I could see him evaluating her, an unknown, dangerous element compounding the complexity of his task. He glared at her and flicked his fingers to ward off evil. “Begone, witch.”

Chris held on to my hand. My fingers ached from the strength of her grip. I waved the men back. “A friend, not a witch.” I smiled, pleased with that sudden awareness. I did have a friend. I looked at the men around me; perhaps more than one.

The captain’s hand now on his sword, he moved closer, no more than a foot away. George and Samuel were a half step behind him with grins on their faces as they watched the stand-off. Ethan, Laurence and the younger men looked at Chris with a mixture of embarrassment, terror and interest.

“Captain,” I repeated. “She’s a friend from the land of Berkeley, but nonetheless a friend. She is not a witch. Not a danger to me or to you.” He fondled his sword handle, his fingers easing it out of the scabbard. “Captain,” I insisted yet again. I moved in front of Chris, still holding her hand. “In this you will heed me.”

Captain Markus finally nodded, not convinced, but unwilling to gainsay me. He moved his hand off the sword. “Well, whatever she is, witch, demon or friend, if she is a comfort to you she can come. But get some clothes on her before we have a riot.”

“Perhaps ‘uprising’ would be the better word,” Jeremy muttered and the other men chuckled.

Chris grinned, blowing a kiss to the men before dismissing the captain with an under-her-breath “fascist pig.” I was too relieved and distracted to decipher yet another of her odd expressions, but it didn’t sound complimentary. As he left, she turned to me. “Who died and made him God?”

I attempted an explanation. “Markus is an honorable and capable warrior; a fine commander, but he has been a soldier all his life. He’s neither accustomed to women or to magic. It can’t be easy for him.”

“That is such a cop-out.” She frowned, following him with her eyes. “But speaking of pigs,” Chris looked about her, “you did at least bring one, didn’t you?” she asked. “I don’t see any here.”

I sighed. “Yes, she’s tethered over behind the horses. I don’t think this will work. No one, not even a particularly dim-sighted dragon would mistake a twenty-five stone pig in a ball gown for me. Besides, every time we try to put a hat on her, she tears it to ribbons.”