The Beholder

by Anna Bright

  The prince shared his father’s coloring. He also shared the silver in his father’s hair. He was forty years old if he was a day.

  “Prince Bertilak, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I assembled the sentence with difficulty, forced the words out with effort.

  The prince gave a low, graceful bow. “Seneschal-elect, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Every minute of dinner ground past with aching, sandpapery slowness. With Bear at my elbow and Bertilak’s sister, Princess Igraine, before me, I floundered along, earning thorny, one-word replies for my attempts at conversation with the guard. Igraine was kind and warm, but I had to bite back a desperate, hysterical laugh when she mentioned she had children my age.

  Perrault’s best efforts to teach me how to properly hold a fork hadn’t prepared me for the evening at hand. I wanted to go back to my room and shriek silently at the perfect little paintings of hounds and horses on the walls.

  My muscles turned to butter when dinner finally ended and we retreated to our corridor. Sir Perrault yawned. “Don’t disturb me in the morning,” he said, glowering at Lang. “I’m exhausted.”

  But Lang was talking with Yu, their brows serious, their voices low. I caught only one word from him: she.

  I flushed. I’m right here, I wanted to say. You can talk to me instead of about me, if you want.

  Or were they talking about someone else? Neither of them was even looking at me.

  “Lang?” I asked. “A word?” He glanced at me and broke away from Yu, and Bear draped his long frame against my doorpost, hands buried in the pockets of his faded brown pants, looking almost aggressively pleasant.

  “You don’t have to wait up,” I said quickly.

  Bear grimaced, and Lang smiled pleasantly. “I’ll look after her.”

  “Brilliant.” The guard pressed his lips together, brows arched, as if in disbelief. “Well, if I’m not needed here—” Bear gave a cynical little bow, and he was gone.

  19

  I shut the door behind us and leaned against it.

  “And you thought twenty-seven was too old,” I managed to say.

  Lang pushed a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

  “Did you know?” I blurted. “Did Perrault tell you? Or Alessandra?”

  “Perrault tells me nothing,” Lang swore. “And I barely knew your stepmother.” He pulled at his tie.

  I stopped in front of the vanity in the corner and took the earrings from my ears, planting my palms against the carved edge of the table. “If you barely know Alessandra, then how did a twenty-year-old get hired to captain this ship?” I demanded. “You can’t tell me there weren’t more experienced—”

  “Because I was the only one willing to go into the Imperiya!” Lang hissed. “I was the only one. That’s why I was chosen. Now, can you keep your voice down?”

  I stepped out of my shoes, pressing my hands to my temples, and sank onto my bed in silence.

  Everything came back to the Imperiya. Its gray mass at the center of the world was a weight, dragging me down, pinning me to this place when my heart longed for home.

  “Do you think Alessandra knew?” I finally said.

  Lang stood stock-still, hands on his hips. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I guess we know now why there was no portrait.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. “How is he unmarried?”

  “Could be a widower.”

  My pulse rose. I took a fevered breath, staring up at the chintz curtains. “I’m not ready to be someone’s second wife.”

  “Calm down,” Lang said, approaching slowly, palms up as though I were a spooked horse. “Look, this is one visit. You’ve got infinite chances to make this work. There are a lot of profiles in that folder.”

  “Lang, I don’t have infinite time,” I seethed. “Did you see my father? In that meeting?”

  His silence was his assent.

  “I have England, and I have Norge, and one of those has to work,” I said through gritted teeth. “I can’t go into the Imperiya. I can’t.”

  Again, Lang said nothing. His dark brows drew together as he took in the truth.

  “And that’s not even addressing the fact that that whole stack is made of firstborn sons,” I added, impetuous. I twiddled a loose thread on the drapes. “My stepmother hopes I won’t come home, Lang.”

  “I’ll make sure that you do.” He knelt in front of me, palms on one knee, dark eyes intent. “Nothing will happen to you.”

  I wanted—I wished—to believe him.

  But he didn’t know the end of this story, either.

  “You can’t convince a crown prince to leave his throne any more than you can promise me safe passage through the tsarytsya’s territory,” I said heavily. “No one can. In Baba Yaga’s land, there is no safety.”

  Lang rose, bracing a hand beside me on the counterpane. “I can keep you safe, Selah,” he argued. “And as for making someone fall for you—” His smile was grim, lingering just overhead. “Well. You wouldn’t want my help with that.”

  I swallowed hard, glancing down at his hand, its lean fingers and knuckles flexed impatiently.

  “Good night, Lang,” I said softly. And he left me alone.

  I took the fairy-tale book from my trunk and put another lonely tick mark on the back page. I fell asleep reading, alone when my eyes closed and alone when I woke.

  But in between sleeping and waking, she found me.

  Into the night I was carried, across the grounds and across England and across the Atlantic by the sound of my godmother’s voice. I chased her over the waves and through Potomac’s fields and into Saint Christopher’s crypt.

  She was saying my name.

  She asked a question, words I couldn’t make out; the answer was muffled. I only heard her reply, her voice that I’d know an ocean away.

  England, Althea said. With nothing but that boy to hold on to.

  And a lifeline, said the other voice. Thanks to you.

  Thanks to you.

  The pause in their conversation was a musical rest, the reflective selah for which I was named. Even in sleep, I yearned for its end, to know what she’d say next.

  It was only this:

  She has everything she needs.

  My godmother’s voice was a sigh, and I wanted to fall back asleep to it, to dream again of being home and safe.

  I was poking at a breakfast tray when Perrault sailed into the room, no knock, no warning.

  “Seneschal-elect.” He bowed gracefully. Then his face turned hard and efficient. “I’ve spent the morning in negotiations with Myrddin and Prince Bertilak. We’ve agreed upon a series of outings for the two of you, in which you will spend time getting to know one another.”

  I stretched out my hand, and Perrault passed me the list.

  Day one of our visit, Sunday, was already over.

  Day 1 (Sunday, passed): rest, state dinner

  Day 2 (Monday): rest

  Day 3 (Tuesday): afternoon tea, Winchester Castle gardens (court ladies and Prince Bertilak attending)

  Day 4 (Wednesday): visit Winchester’s high street (preselected shops)

  Day 5 (Thursday): family dinner

  Day 6 (Friday): village school visit (with Prince Bertilak), state dinner

  Day 7 (Saturday): tournament, ball

  Day 8 (Sunday): church, rest

  Day 9 (Monday): fishing on the Itchen (with Prince Bertilak), family dinner

  Day 10 (Tuesday): walk through castle gardens (with Prince Bertilak)

  Day 11 (Wednesday): foxhunt (various courtiers and Prince Bertilak attending), family dinner

  Day 12 (Thursday): private luncheon aboard Prince Bertilak’s boat

  Day 13 (Friday): meeting of the Round Table (various knights and Prince Bertilak attending), state dinner

  Day 14 (Saturday): tournament, ball

  Affair after affair, outing after outing. The days looked nothing like my life in Potomac, quiet and private and productive.

  �
��I want two events taken off this agenda,” I said suddenly. “I can’t commit to this many activities.”

  Perrault stared at me. “It’s two engagements or fewer a day for the span of two weeks,” he said. “Do you not appreciate how ungracious you will appear, saying you’re unable to attend one dinner and one outing a day? What else will you do with your time?”

  “I’m not ungrateful,” I said sharply. “I’m just—I like more time alone than this.”

  “You have today to rest,” Perrault said. “Have your man take you for a walk. I’ll fetch him.”

  “I don’t want you to—”

  “Here! Guard!” Perrault opened the door and summoned Bear from where he’d apparently been waiting in the hallway. “The seneschal-elect would like a tour of Winchester Castle,” said Perrault, more at Bear than to him.

  I glanced uncomfortably from the guard in the doorway to the protocol officer, who looked very nearly done with me. “I mean more than today, Perrault. I need some space to breathe. This is who I am. This is how I do things.”

  Perrault folded his hands. “I’d try to accustom myself to breathing in close quarters. You’re not mistress of your days anymore. It’d be a pity to watch you suffocate.”

  He left me with a smile.

  The guard ran his tongue over his teeth and stared at the breakfast tray, his aspect bitter as the dregs of my tea. He turned and stalked back through my door. “Whenever you’re ready, Your Grace.”

  20

  He was as unenthusiastic a tour guide as I could have imagined.

  I struggled to keep up as Bear strode into Winchester Castle’s throne room, empty but for our echoing footsteps and a few maids who scurried out as we entered. Two pillared colonnades swept the sides of the hall. Empty chairs and an empty red-and-gold throne circled an abused wooden table at its far end, its center painted with a lion and rose.

  “This throne room is ancient,” Bear said blandly, as though he’d given this speech to a dozen dignitaries. “The rest of the castle is much newer.” He stopped before a portrait of a redheaded woman in a wide ruff and crown.

  A suit of armor stood guard beside the painting, its empty gauntlet closed around a spear. I curtsied gravely to its closed visor and rusted joints.

  Bear stared at me, nonplussed. “What are you doing?”

  Cheeks hot, I straightened up. “Nothing.” I’d forgotten myself for a split second. Keep your mind on your business.

  Silence crystallized between us.

  I stared around, taking in the elaborate tapestries that covered the walls. Gold dragons thrashed on a green field behind the throne; gold crowns were stacked on a blue background on the arras beside it. Bear absently fingered a loose yarn on a tapestry featuring a knight wearing a white tunic crossed with red. A woman in a scarlet gown beckoned to him, leading him off the road he traveled.

  The tapestry was old—ancient enough that I wanted to smack Bear’s hand away—and beautifully done, rich with color and detail. He stared at it long enough that I wondered if he’d forgotten me.

  “What’s this?” I finally asked.

  “It’s an old, old story,” he answered flatly. “Or, rather, a piece of one. This is the Lady Duessa attempting to seduce the Redcrosse Knight. She calls herself Fidessa—faith—but represents falsehood. The story’s about religion.” He eyed me guardedly. “And other things.”

  I ignored his glance, crossing my arms, pursing my lips as I studied the two figures. “They always do show the evil woman in red, don’t they?”

  Redcrosse and Duessa were a pair at odds—he gallant and naive and unwitting, she the embodiment of deception. A risk walking. A mistake, ready to be made. The sight of them weighed something down inside me.

  I thought of my father, marrying Alessandra sight unseen, left now at her mercy.

  I thought of myself, sent away to parts and princes unknown.

  “It’s very dangerous to trust a stranger.” I spoke the words quietly, but my voice broke over them nonetheless.

  The following afternoon was crystal clear, the wind just light enough to flirt with the tablecloths covering the tables around the garden. I’d slept poorly the night before, trying to count how many more tick marks stood between me and home.

  Bear and Sir Perrault flanked me, Yu, Lang, and Skop having begged off. Cobie had just laughed when Perrault had suggested she join us for the afternoon tea.

  “Your Grace.” Prince Bertilak crossed the lawn, smiling and offering me his arm. “You look lovely.”

  I could feel Perrault smirking behind me. He’d been the one to insist on the pale green sheath and fascinator I wore. “Everyone will be wearing this,” he’d argued.

  “I look like a rooster,” I’d said flatly.

  He’d pinned the ivory silk flowers into my hair anyway. “So will everyone else.”

  And so they all did. Dozens of court ladies tottered around amid the fountains and rosebushes in demure day dresses, their high-heeled shoes stabbing delicately at the soft green grass, their hats as ornate as any of the flowers in their beds. All I could think of was how many fields could be planted or cattle fed for the cost of the clothes I was wearing.

  Princess Igraine drew near, clasping my hand and pressing her delicate cheek to mine. She smelled like powder and violets. “Please,” she said. “Come and meet our friends.”

  The party was a sea of elegant hands and polite smiles; I drifted through on Bertilak’s elbow, Igraine introducing me to ladies, viscountesses, horse breeders, baronesses, socialites, and one extremely old duchess, who sat me down beside her. They left me to her tender mercies as tea was served.

  Finger sandwiches, scones, mousses, and petits fours appeared on miniature towers of floral-printed porcelain plates, arriving with steaming pots of tea.

  “How are you enjoying your stay, my dear?” she asked.

  “Very well, Duchess,” I said carefully, considering the pastry tower. Was it too far across the table to reach? Across the party, Perrault eyed me sternly, then shook his head—whether at the sweets or the reach, I couldn’t be sure.

  The Duchess of Devonshire followed my gaze, then, seeing Perrault, unceremoniously dragged the tea things a foot closer to us.

  I raised my eyebrows at her, but the duchess merely plucked a scone from the tower and began to heap it with jam. “I can’t abide bossy aides,” she said coolly. “Or clotted cream.”

  I didn’t know what clotted cream was. It didn’t sound appealing. I took two finger sandwiches and a raspberry shortbread cookie, cutting my eyes at Perrault again. He scowled. I added a strawberry to my plate.

  “Now, dear,” the duchess began comfortably, biting into her scone. “How exactly did you become acquainted with Bear?”

  I frowned. “Bear? He’s my guard.”

  The duchess shook her head and laughed. “How silly of me. I meant Bertilak, but I was watching that wretched adviser of yours and saw your guard next to him.” She dabbed her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “You couldn’t have met him at school, you’re much too young. Where did you study? Sherborne Girls? Cheltenham Ladies’?”

  I shook my head, swallowing a bite of my sandwich. “I was taught by the nuns in my parish, back in Potomac.”

  “Ha!” the duchess exclaimed. “A Catholic. Well, we’ve moved beyond our fear of that, at least,” she said, mostly to herself. “So you knew nothing of Bertilak before your courtship was arranged?” Her eyes were keen on me, her feathered fascinator bobbing as she chewed another scone with the focus of a mathematician.

  I shook my head. “My stepmother arranged our meeting.”

  The idea to pursue strangers away from home wasn’t mine, I thought of adding, but decided that wasn’t tea-party fare.

  “Your stepmother. Interesting.” The duchess raised her eyebrows, then reached for a miniature cup of blackberry mousse, spiked with a demitasse spoon. “She and your father won’t miss you terribly?”

  I didn’t know if she meant over the duration
of my courtship, or if I married Bertilak. I didn’t guess it mattered.

  “They’re eager for me to settle down,” I said politely, sipping my tea. “My stepmother has . . .” I paused, considering. “She has great hopes for me.”

  “Don’t all mothers?” she asked slyly.

  I smiled back at her noncommittally. I didn’t have the heart to tell the duchess I wouldn’t know.

  Another afternoon. Another night. I put another tick mark in my godmother’s book. A little fence of scratches was beginning to take shape across the back endpaper.

  The months stretched out before me, interminable.

  21

  “This.” Perrault thrust a hanger in my direction.

  The following afternoon, I was set to formally visit the village of Winchester with His Highness. We were going to patronize three shops on the high street, give me a view of the town, and introduce me to the common people all at once, said Perrault. I nearly choked on my tea at the word common.

  “It feels a little ridiculous to describe other people as common when I’m not royalty,” I said, setting down my teacup.

  “You are not royalty. You are nobility, in the eyes of the court.”

  “I’m not. I hold a steward’s position.”

  Perrault sighed dramatically. “You will inherit a position of authority from your father, not by your own merit or by election. You are, therefore, nobility, your romantic notions aside.”

  “Are you saying I lack merit?” I bristled, turning the suit over in my hands, and passed it back to Perrault. “I don’t want to wear this.”

  He pushed it toward me again, exhaling a sharp breath through his nose. “Everything I have chosen for you I have chosen for a reason. Yesterday, you wore silk. It was important that you look at home among the court ladies. Today, you will wear tweed and sturdy but elegant boots.”

  I held up the hanger bearing a red-and-white suit skirt and jacket. “I look like a very serious picnic table.”

  “You look like a respectable English lady,” Perrault corrected me sternly. “Like a member of the nobility, but sensible enough to be among the people. The red and white is also a nod to England’s flag, Saint George’s Cross.”