The Princess and the Hound (16 page)

P
RINCESS
B
EATRICE ARRIVED
with her entourage that evening. The royal trumpeters announced her arrival, and George stood in front of a veritable forest of nobles who had arrived purely to see the mysterious woman their prince was to marry.

They did not appear impressed by the small group that surrounded her. George counted four guards, the same number he had taken to Sarrey. She had no maid, no ladies-in-waiting, and no courtiers of her father’s.

She came alone, as George had gone to Sarrey, with the exception of her hound.

George smiled at the thought. Her hound was all the company Beatrice wanted, he was sure. The hound was also far better protection than any courtiers or ladies-in-waiting might provide.

After the trumpeting had ceased, George stepped forward and took her hand to help her out of the car
riage. She allowed it but only for a moment. Then Marit leaped out, sniffed the air, and stared at the castle that would soon be her—and her mistress’s—home. She did not seem impressed.

“How was your journey?” George asked politely.

“I’m sure you know well exactly what the journey from Sarrey to Kendel is like,” said Beatrice in response.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I do. Just short of miserable.”

“Long and unpleasant. I had rather walk it myself, but my father said it would be inappropriate to my station.” She bared her teeth. “It would scarcely have taken any longer.”

No doubt the king had had other objections, George thought.

He turned to Marit. “And how did your hound enjoy the journey?” he asked.

“She was eager for it to end,” Beatrice replied.

George put his hand on her arm and guided her through the throng.

George nodded and smiled at the assembled crowd but refused to make any introductions to Princess Beatrice. Later perhaps. Now he must speak to her before he left on his mission to find the physician.

Sir Stephen would try to take her over, George thought. He would try to show her how things should be done, as he had with George as a young boy. But it would not be the same. George suspected that Beatrice would not take kindly to such attempts at training, here any more than she had at home.

Yet George did not think Beatrice was a bad choice for a bride. On the contrary, she made him think of how his mother had disappeared from her duties and been simply herself. Yes, that had left his father with more to do, but perhaps he had not minded, because even to look at her gave relief. So it was with Beatrice. She, too, was someone whose life was utterly different from his own, someone who could not be forced to do what was best for the kingdom.

Except that she was marrying George. He wished that he could say she had fallen in love with his patience and his perseverance with her father or even tales of his heroism with the bear. But he did not think it was so. If Beatrice thought of him at all, he had the impression it was as a suitable mate, no more than that.

He held more tightly to her arm, and she grimaced and yanked away from him, nearly stumbling over Marit in the process.

“Excuse me, Princess Beatrice,” said George.

Beatrice said nothing.

George led her to the bedchamber that he had seen prepared the day before. But it was not as he had left it. He had specifically told Sir Stephen to keep it plain and simple, to leave the window open, and not to light the fire. But someone had come in and put heady flowers everywhere, lit a stifling fire, and filled the chamber with a sweet scent that made his nose twitch.

Beatrice actually sneezed, and Marit began to whine.

“I am sorry,” George said, and went to open the window. He sighed. To take away the flowers now would do more harm than good. It would make Beatrice appear hard to please.

Beatrice leaned against the bed, and Marit made a small noise.

“How is your father?” George asked politely.

“He told me that I could do better at making you love me if only I would set my mind to it. He said that he knew I was intelligent enough but just too stubborn to do what would please you.”

George flushed. He did not think he wished to know what King Helm thought would please him.

“He sent me with a gift for you, a small golden ball.”

“A ball?” echoed George, confused.

“For our first child,” said Beatrice. “Our son, as he put it.”

“Oh.” George did not know what to say to that. He could feel Beatrice watching him closely, though. Finally, he said, “I do not think of children when I think of you.”

“No? That is what a marriage is for, is it not? To create children to bridge the gap between the two countries?”

“I suppose.” Beatrice saw things so clearly and spoke so plainly. It was not that he did not like that about her, but somehow, it still surprised him.

“And how is your father?” Beatrice asked. “Is he still ill?”

“Gravely ill,” said George. “In fact—” Now was as good a time as any. “I must leave the morning after tomorrow. To search out a physician for him.”

“A physician?”

“Yes. I believe that he has been poisoned.” He waited, then, ears burning, went on. “I am seeking a physician who will be able to cure him. A Dr. Gharn.”

“Is that not the name of the physician who has been tending him these last months?” asked Beatrice.

George blinked in surprise. Then he thought of King Helm. Of course. Her father would have his own sources of information in Kendel’s court. Spies.

“Yes.”

“And you think this same physician has been poisoning your father? Yet you seek him out to beg a cure from him?”

Put that way, it did not seem sensible at all.

“Princess Beatrice, this man, Dr. Gharn, I believe he may be the same Dr. Rhuul who was but lately in your kingdom.”

He stopped. Beatrice had gone very pale, and Marit had slumped to the ground in front of the fire.

“Dr. Rhuul?” Beatrice got out after a long silence.

“What can you tell me of the man?” he asked boldly.

Marit began panting heavily, and Beatrice moved to her side and knelt on the ground to rub her heaving ribs.

“Did this Dr. Rhuul do something to you?” George persisted.

“He is a horrible man,” said Beatrice at last. “The worst of men.”

“Yes.” George did not ask for details. “Can you think of anything you know about him that would help me to find him?”

Marit and Beatrice seemed to shudder as one.

“I am sorry,” George said.

There was a knock at the door.

Marit snarled.

George went to open it. Several of the young noblewomen were standing in front of him, and they seemed taken aback to see George.

“Oh, Your Highness,” said Lady Teller, “I thought we might have the opportunity to speak to the princess.” She stood taller, as if to get a glimpse around George.

“You may see her at the ball tomorrow night,” said George curtly. “She is very tired after her journey and wishes only to rest.” He closed the door.

Afterward he wished he had thought of a more polite way to do it, for it would reflect far worse on Beatrice than on him. They would think her snobbish and unwilling to make friends. He had been accused of the same things himself.

“He will be in the south,” said Beatrice, to George’s surprise. “And he will be with an animal.”

“His bird, you mean?” George asked.

Beatrice shook her head. “Another animal.”

“What kind of animal?” George was baffled by these
strange clues. What could they mean? How did Beatrice know they were true? Should he trust her at all?

“I do not know what kind of animal,” Beatrice answered, irritated.

“Then how do you know the south?” asked George.

“He mentioned something to me once. That he would begin in the north and work his way south, until he was done with it all.”

“All of what?” asked George.

“His revenge,” said Beatrice.

“And the animal?”

“He likes to have animals around him. He enjoys commanding them.” Beatrice spoke with bitter disdain.

Well, George supposed she would think her relationship with Marit different. But George had not seen that the doctor treated his bird so very badly.

“My father’s closest adviser is Sir Stephen,” George said, thinking ahead. “I shall make sure that you are introduced to him tomorrow at the ball. He will be eager to help you in anything you need while I am gone.”

“No,” said Beatrice. Marit began to pace the floor of the bedchamber.

“I have to go, and I know it is uncomfortable for you to be here alone,” said George. It was worse than that. It was unconscionable.

And yet he had to find Dr. Gharn.

“I will not stay here,” said Beatrice, “not if you are gone.”

“But it will not be long,” George said, though he
knew there was no guarantee this would be true.

Suddenly George found Marit’s teeth on his leg, not tearing at the flesh, but digging beneath his thin leggings, giving notice.

“I will return as soon as I can. And I’m sure you will be well treated while I am gone.” He hoped that his own noblewomen were better behaved than Lady Dulen.

“We shall go with you,” Beatrice said.

George looked down at Marit, whose teeth were still firmly on his leg. He thought about what Sir Stephen would say. His guards. The lord general, who already thought George’s adventure idiocy.

“You will come,” George said.

Marit let go of his leg and went back to Beatrice. They stood together, and George realized how rare it was to see them apart.

“As for the welcoming ball, I do not see how we can escape from that,” said George. But there was much preparation to be done in the meantime.

Beatrice’s face went distant. “Must we dance?” she asked.

George hesitated. Sir Stephen had been so insistent on that point, even when George tried to explain about what had happened when they danced in Sarrey.

But Sir Stephen was going to be displeased about so much of this. He had best get used to it, George thought.

“We will not dance if you do not wish it,” George told her.

Beatrice let out a long breath.

“Is there anything else I can get you? To help you to feel more at home?” George asked.

“A large haunch of raw meat,” said Beatrice suddenly.

George’s mouth fell open.

“For Marit,” said Beatrice.

“Of course,” said George. And he saw that it was done.

A
FTER AN EXHAUSTING
day of secret preparations to leave, George sat in his bedchamber listening to the music for the ball being practiced. The musicians played the same eight songs over and over again, and he had become heartily sick of them by the time he dressed himself and combed his hair—five times.

Finally, on his way downstairs, he caught sight of Marit and Beatrice, wandering along the wrong hallway. He hurried after them, only to be told curtly by Beatrice that she and her hound must do “something alone.”

It was but minutes before the two of them were to walk into the ball arm in arm. George was frustrated, but more angry at the way Beatrice spoke to him than about the ball’s beginning late. What did he care about keeping the nobles waiting? It would just more thoroughly whet their appetites for the first sight of Princess Beatrice.

So he stood outside the door to the ballroom, back straight, head high, shoulders flat as any soldier’s. Even the lord general would be proud of him, George thought. Sir Stephen was at his side. At the other side was a space for Princess Beatrice. And to her side, more space where her attendants should have been. The four guards from Sarrey, in full uniform, stood behind.

“Where is she?” whispered Sir Stephen, after the music for their entrance had been played twice.

“She will be here,” George said with as much calm as he could muster.

“Where are her ladies?” Sir Stephen asked next.

It was evidence of how distraught Sir Stephen was over the king’s illness that he did not know this about the princess already.

“She did not bring any ladies,” said George, “only her hound.”

“What?” Sir Stephen was astonished.

“She is more comfortable without them,” said George.

“Without anyone?”

“What is wrong with that?” George asked quietly.

“To have no companions, no friends…” Sir Stephen said.

“She is who she is,” said George.

“Her father could have demanded that she take someone with her. To put a good face on it,” said Sir Stephen.

“I took no noblemen with me,” George reminded him.

“But that was different. You are…a prince.”

A man,
thought George.
And so in need of no protection.

“You should think of it as a good sign,” George said. “If King Helm trusts us enough that he does not think she needs any attendants, it bodes well for the future.”

“Or it means that he does not think we are any threat to him,” Sir Stephen muttered sourly.

“Or that she argued her father out of them herself because she is so strong-minded.” George tried again. “A good thing in a queen, that she thinks for herself and is unafraid.”

“But no maid?” Sir Stephen protested one last time.

“She is not overly concerned with her appearance,” said George.

Sir Stephen was not entirely satisfied with this explanation and became even less satisfied when Beatrice arrived at last, Marit at her side, both of them dusted with dirt and bits of leaves and flowers that they were trying to shake off.

George tried to cover a smile at the sight of them. Beatrice looked like a fierce little girl, determined not to be scolded. As for Marit, she held her head high and walked as a queen in her own domain. Confident and cool, though sniffing the guards as she passed by them.

“Go, go,” said Sir Stephen when the music began again.

George took firm hold of Beatrice’s arm and walked in. The ballroom was filled with more people than he had seen together in all his years as prince.

He forced himself to breathe deeply.

He searched for familiar faces to focus on, rather
than the whole of the crowd. Mostly he saw servants he knew. Elin, the cook, who stood by the tables of pastries with a challenging look on her face, in case anyone should dare not to finish a whole one.

And then…Peter.

George stopped short at the sight of him. He had not seen him in—how many years had it been? Eight?

He was taller than he had been, and broader. George suspected that most women would find him very handsome, with his blond locks and square chin.

“Who is that horrible young man?” Beatrice asked, following George’s gaze.

For that alone, George thought, he could marry her happily.

“His name is Peter Lessing,” said George. He struggled to recall his title. “Sir Peter Lessing.”

“He looks as though he has eaten something very sweet,” said Beatrice.

Indeed he did, smiling widely and moving forward through the crowd, raising a hand to draw George’s attention.

George wished that he had Marit at his side, circling his leg for comfort, but she kept close to Beatrice, guarding her. George’s hands grew sweaty, and he felt suddenly alone.

Peter stopped before them and bowed with a flourish. “My prince, would you present me to your bride-to-be?” he asked boldly.

Peter would take great pride in telling the story of
how he had been first to be presented to Princess Beatrice of all those who had gathered at the ball, George realized. And George, as prince, could do nothing to show his displeasure.

“This is Princess Beatrice of Sarrey,” he said.

Peter took her hand in his and held it to his lips. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said.

There was a moment of silence. Marit’s hairs were standing up on her back, and she had her teeth bared.

Peter took no notice. “Let me tell you a story about George here. Did you know that he and I played together when we were young?”

Beatrice shook her head, her eyes on the floor.

“I shall tell you about the time that I convinced George to jump in the moat with me, shall I?” Peter said. His eyes flashed in triumph toward George.

George froze and suddenly felt as guilty and filthy as he had when fished out of the moat on that day so long ago.

“I told George that swimming in the moat at midnight was the one sure way to acquire the animal magic.” Peter went on, his voice oozing charm. “And then I dared him to meet me there and jump in. Of course I let him go in first.”

“You didn’t jump in yourself?” asked Beatrice.

“No,” said Peter. “No, I never did.”

“Too afraid of the animal magic?” asked Beatrice after a moment.

“What?” asked Peter, stepping back and letting go of
Beatrice’s hand at last. “No, of course not. That had nothing to do with it. It was a joke, don’t you see?”

“A very mean joke, then, it seems to me. You were older than he, were you not? And he was your prince. Why would you tease him so?” she asked.

George put an arm around Beatrice to lead her away. He could see Sir Stephen motioning to him. This would be the perfect chance to exit.

And yet Beatrice froze at his touch.

“It was all in good fun,” Peter continued, unrelenting. “George enjoyed it afterward, I am sure. Although the look on his face at the moment that he was pulled from the moat…priceless. I think he was really terrified that he had the animal magic then.”

Had Peter been watching, hidden, all the time? As his prince nearly drowned? George burned all over again.

“You are an expert on such things yourself?” asked Beatrice. “On animal magic?” She nudged Marit, and the hound moved forward to flank Peter so that he could not escape easily.

“An expert on animal magic, of course not. No, no,” said Peter hastily.

“Are you sure? I have heard it comes later in some, and they do not know they have it until it is too late and animals surround them.”

Peter’s eyes were wild. “I do not have the animal magic. I swear it!” His voice had gone as high as a boy’s, and he put up his hands as if to ward off Beatrice’s accusation.

Beatrice turned to George. “He should be sent away.”

“Because you suspect he has animal magic?” asked George. It made no sense, not when she knew about him.

“Because he is evil,” said Beatrice. “He stinks of it. Can you not smell it?”

George sniffed. He smelled fear, no more than that. But was it his own? Or Peter’s?

“Please, Your Highness.” Peter turned at last to George.

George wished that the moment were more gratifying. He felt a little sorry for Peter, and a little tired of him and his petty ways. Yet he was part of George’s kingdom.

“Let him go,” he said to Beatrice.

She shrugged and stepped back.

George stepped forward and put a hand on Marit’s back, and she let herself be led back as well.

He nodded to Peter and did not see him the rest of the night.

Sir Stephen tried several times to get George to lead Beatrice in a dance, but George was firm on the matter. He listened to the music without complaint. He ate what Cook Elin expected of him. He greeted warmly all those Sir Stephen pointed out to him and presented Beatrice to every one of them.

Her pride, her stubbornness, her strength, and her refusal to be cowed: Those were all the things that would make her queen. His queen.