The Beholder

by Anna Bright

  “You’re saying that wearing a red-and-white tweed suit skirt aligns me with the English common people and a legendary dragon slayer?”

  Perrault nodded assiduously.

  I pointed at the door. “Out.”

  And then I put on the suit.

  Perrault, Myrddin, and Bear escorted me into a foyer near the mews once I was dressed. When the prince appeared, I curtsied as best I could in my sturdy-but-elegant boots, still stiff in their newness. “Your Highness.”

  “Your Grace.” Bertilak nodded approvingly.

  I glanced at Perrault. “Are we waiting for Lang? Should he be joining us?”

  “One would think so,” Perrault said irritably. “But Captain Lang informed me that he was occupied with other matters today.”

  When we boarded a carriage, it was almost a relief to sit next to Bertilak instead of Perrault, who sat opposite me, next to Bear. Apart from the sound of the carriage wheels on cobblestones and the excited cries of the people in the streets, we rode in silence.

  Dread sloshed around the pit of my stomach as I remembered a particularly terrible Potomac state dinner. I’d wanted to sit next to Daddy, but Alessandra had tasked me with entertaining a delegation from the Lakelands. The group of eight or nine middle-aged men had plied me with questions about local fishing and then ignored me for two hours.

  It appeared my first courtship would be more of the same.

  We stopped outside a bakery, and Prince Bertilak helped me from the carriage. The crowds in the streets called to him, and to me. The prince held up a cordial hand; I clasped my hands in front of me, nodding warmly at the people. When Bear opened the door to the shop, the clamor of the crowd gave way to the chatter of a few excited patrons and the smell of butter.

  The baker smiled and curtsied. “Your Highness. Your Grace.” She smiled at Bertilak, then at me.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Prince Bertilak said cheerfully. “Thank you so much for agreeing to have us.”

  I peered into the pastry case. “Can you tell us a little about what your work involves?” I asked. “I only know a little about cooking, and nothing at all about baking.”

  “Well,” the bakery owner began. “I get up around three o’clock every day. The shop opens at five.” My eyes went wide, and I exchanged a glance with Prince Bertilak.

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw five in the morning,” he joked.

  “I get up around five most mornings. But three!” I shook my head. “Now—”

  “What?” the prince exclaimed. I glanced back at the baker, more interested in hearing about her work than talking about mine, but Perrault widened his eyes, prompting me.

  “It’s cooler in the fields before the sun comes up,” I said with a shrug.

  Bertilak cocked his head. “The fields?”

  I nodded. “I oversee about three thousand acres—the public fields that feed Arbor Hall and our needy—and a few hundred head of cattle. I help in the kitchen garden. That kind of thing.” In my periphery, Perrault pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably trying to plot an outfit that said, She’s not a field hand, truly.

  The shop assistants exchanged glances. “Would you like to see the kitchen?” one of them asked.

  Perrault put a hand on my arm, but I shook him off. “Of course!” I beamed. I glanced at Bertilak, and he nodded, bemused.

  In the room beyond the bright storefront, two more bakers were hard at work, one rolling out pastry and the other splashing what smelled like beer over chunks of steak in a frying pan. Ignoring Perrault’s throat clearing, I peered over their shoulders, crouched to peek into the oven. “Pie?” I asked.

  “Rhubarb,” the baker answered, smiling.

  “Have you ever had a pecan pie?” I turned to Bertilak but caught Bear’s eye instead. Both shook their heads. “It’s pecans, butter, eggs, sugar, corn syrup—”

  “Golden syrup,” Perrault broke in, glancing back and forth between us anxiously. His smile had taken on a vaguely manic edge.

  “Golden syrup and sugar?” Bear laughed.

  Bertilak joined in.

  I nodded. “It was my mother’s favorite, before she passed away.” Bear’s face clouded. I cleared my throat. “It’s very popular in Savannah, where she came from.”

  “It sounds like treacle tart with nuts,” the baker mused.

  “Maybe?” I didn’t know what treacle was, but I was curious about the destiny of the steak and beer sizzling in the pan. “I wish we had time to stay and learn to make something with you.”

  Perrault’s smile was tense. “We’re awaited up the street.”

  “Take something to eat,” the baker urged. Perrault shook his head, ever so slightly.

  “Money?” I whispered to him. He passed me a few notes, apparently resigned, and I pressed them into the baker’s hand.

  “Feed someone today who needs it,” I said, smiling. Then I nodded at the pastry case, full of pies and tarts. “I’m sure I’ll be back.”

  We carried on, strolling a little farther up the street. When we passed a bookshop, I glanced at Bertilak, then at Bear. “Could we stop here?” I asked. The owner was right inside, considering us curiously.

  “No,” Bear said quickly. I raised my eyebrows.

  Prince Bertilak smiled. “We mustn’t inconvenience anyone who hasn’t already arranged to have us visit. These things have to be planned.”

  I nodded, understanding, though still disappointed. We walked on, instead, into a shop up the street where jewelry gleamed in glass cases, intricately shaped and heaped with precious stones. “Do you fashion these yourself?” I asked the owner, awed.

  The old woman adjusted her glasses, nodding. “I do. My father taught me.” I peered closer at the case. “Would you take a gift, Your Grace?”

  This time, I didn’t need to look to Perrault. “No,” I said firmly. “But I’m very flattered by the offer.”

  The flower shop we visited next was the most crowded of all. As the florist took us through the gardens behind the store, I admired the trellises climbing with ivy, the rosebushes, the dew-covered clusters of little blue flowers whose blooms bent their heads in the slanting sunlight. I crouched beside them. “What are these called?”

  “Bluebells,” he said, smiling. “They don’t grow where you live?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll send seeds with your aide. Please, choose a few for a posy.” He gestured widely at the garden.

  I beamed at him. “You’re too kind.” Slowly, mindful of Bertilak’s and Bear’s and Perrault’s eyes on me, I plucked a few of the bluebells and some daisies, admiring the silky blue and white petals side by side. Almost as an afterthought, I wandered to the corner of the garden, where a few yellow blooms grew wild. I picked three of the little flowers and bundled them into the bouquet.

  When I turned, Bertilak and Bear were watching me carefully, and Perrault was watching them. They didn’t speak as we left the florist’s.

  When we returned to the carriage, Bertilak climbed up right away, but I paused by the door. “I’d like to go for a walk, if that’s all right. To clear my head.”

  No one clamored over me at home, even when Daddy and I went out together. I needed to move. I needed a moment alone.

  “Of course,” said the prince. He nodded at Bear. “Accompany her, please. Off the high street.”

  The guard nodded and turned away. Sighing, I tramped after him across the cobblestones of the high street and over the town common, the placidly grazing animals a stark contrast to the tense silence between us.

  “I got the sense I did something wrong back there,” I ventured.

  Bear kept walking. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well,” I began. “At the baker’s, everything seemed fine. I talked too much and was too friendly, so Perrault was horrified, but that’s normal. And then I don’t think I was supposed to accept the gift from the jeweler. I’m not a protocol officer, but common sense dictated I refuse that.”


  “Right.”

  I nodded, hurrying to keep up with Bear. “Good. But then—at the florist’s. Should I not have taken the flowers?”

  “They were only flowers, I suppose,” he said shortly.

  “Yeah, I’d think that, too.” I finally caught up to Bear, glancing at him sidelong. “But then why did everyone act so strange?”

  Bear stopped short, studying me. “Flowers have meanings, you know.”

  I thought of Perrault, yammering on about my clothes and their implications. I crossed my arms. “Everything has a meaning here.”

  “With royals it does,” he said bluntly. “And this is an old country, with a long history.”

  “So?” I demanded.

  Bear furrowed his forehead, then looked away. “Bluebells are a sweet flower. They mean humility. And daisies mean innocence, so you can bet everyone watching liked that. Good omens and all.”

  I nodded at him to continue. “Fine. So what did I do wrong?”

  “The cowslips.” He narrowed his eyes.

  I frowned. “The little yellow ones? I thought they were pretty.” I paused. “Was it because they were just a wildflower? I didn’t mean to offend the florist.”

  Bear shook his head. “No. It’s just that cowslips—well.”

  I covered my eyes. “I picked a flower that means death and destruction, didn’t I?”

  “They have a . . . risky connotation,” Bear hedged.

  I pulled my hands away from my face, wrinkling my nose. “What does that mean?”

  “They are the symbol of choice for a rather—well, a rather reckless group.”

  My mouth fell open in horror. “Criminals?”

  “Not in England’s eyes.” Bear walked on. “Still, they’re enough to make His Highness worry.” He glanced back at me carefully. “You really didn’t know?”

  I know nothing, I wanted to shout at him. Because I’m told nothing.

  I just shook my head, demure and disappointed. Even Perrault would’ve had to admire my restraint.

  Then, suddenly, I forgot them all.

  From the green lawn damp with last night’s dew, an arched and towered building strove toward the sun. I stood still beneath its bright stone walls gleaming like the sea, its windows like a rainbow fractured and rearranged.

  This was the England I’d dreamed of, the country of the stories I’d loved. Not planned shop visits or wardrobe choices, but grass and stone and beauty enough to leave me breathless.

  Bear’s shout from a hundred yards away startled me from my reverie. “Oi! What are you doing?” He shook his head, frowning, arms outstretched. “I thought you wanted a walk!”

  “It’s beautiful!” I shouted back, gesticulating at the huge structure. “Library?”

  “Cathedral!” he bellowed back. “Church of England.” He put his hands on his hips, head cocked. “Though I don’t imagine a Catholic would be struck by lightning just for stepping inside.”

  Surprised, I stifled a laugh. “Can we go in?”

  Bear shook his head and beckoned me on, feigning impatience but grinning slightly.

  “Fine.” I ran toward him, a little winded. “They brought me here to meet your prince,” I said, bracing one hand on my knee and pointing back at the cathedral with the other. “But scenes like that are why I came to England.”

  The guard’s mouth twisted into the tiniest of smug smiles. “Library’s on the other side of the castle. Not as fine as the ones at Oxford or Cambridge or in London, but I’ll take you there in a few days if you’d like.”

  “You’ve been to Oxford and Cambridge?” I straightened, suddenly excited.

  “Not myself,” Bear said quickly. “But—you know. They say.” He paused. “King Constantine went to Oxford. Bertilak, as well. Myrddin hails from Cymru, but he was a professor at Cambridge. They don’t argue often, those three, but when they do, it’s about which university is superior.”

  “That’s funny.” I smiled, feeling a little shortchanged that my trip abroad was a husband hunt and not an adventure like college. “We can’t go see the library now?”

  “Later.” Bear smiled, and his elevated accent grew a touch less chilly. “I promise.”

  Bear didn’t slow as he walked on, but his shoulders and his voice loosened as he showed me the rectory and the pub beside the river. “There’s the Red Lion, and the miller’s, and that way, past the village green, is the smithy.” He pointed with one hand and shaded his eyes with the other against the pale afternoon sun. “Shops and houses are there on the high street and Saint George’s, as you’ve already seen, and the fields are on the edges of town. They finished planting just before you arrived.”

  A cry drew my eyes back to the village green. Dozens of small children shrieked and tumbled over one another in a game like tag or Marco Polo. “We had May Day there a few weeks ago,” said Bear. “The children danced around the maypole for the May Queen, covered boats on the Itchen with flowers. All very charming. And that”—he stepped behind me and swept one lean hand toward the green’s grassy expanse—“is where your tournament will be held Saturday.”

  My tournament. I swallowed but didn’t answer.

  “Blindman’s buff,” Bear said.

  “What?” I blurted.

  He flicked a hand at the whooping children. “The game.”

  “Ah.” I relaxed. I’d startled at the word buff. “Looks like more fun than being prodded onto a pedestal for an afternoon.”

  The heat of Bear’s laugh on my neck startled me, sending a shot of warmth through my stomach. “Not looking forward to it?”

  He stepped up beside me. I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I’m sure it’ll be exciting. But I’d rather not have so many people watching.”

  Bear’s forehead furrowed, blue eyes searching my face. “What are you afraid they’ll see?”

  I flushed and looked back to the children, unable to hold his stare. “I’m not sure.”

  22

  The prince spent the next day hunting with his men. Later that night, we were summoned to dinner.

  The meal wasn’t a small gathering, but it wasn’t a court banquet, either. The royal family crowded casually around a large table in an elegant private dining room, with green damask wallpaper and gilded molding.

  My posy sat at my place at the table.

  I’d given it to Perrault when I’d gone for my walk. I’d assumed he would put it in my room. But he looked as surprised to see it as I did.

  Lang and Yu paused in the doorway, seeming disappointed at the small size of the gathering. Yu nodded at the flowers, frowning and scrubbing a hand over his close-cropped black hair, and Lang muttered something to him. I ignored them, following the scents of beer and pastry and butter on the air.

  I took my seat, several places down from the king and prince, and trays began to circle the table. I took a chicken-and-mushroom pie from Myrddin’s hands on my left and passed the plate to Bear on my right, avoiding Perrault’s eyes as I served myself.

  The royal family was casual—Prince Bertilak and his brothers hadn’t even put on fresh clothes when they came in from the hunt—but I sat tense and silent, wondering what to make of the flowers beside my water glass. When I glanced up, I found Lang staring at the blossoms again, brow furrowed.

  Between the flowers and Perrault’s eyes taking in every bite I took, I hardly tasted my supper at all. I longed for quiet suppers at home with Daddy, nights with just the two of us when Alessandra was busy entertaining.

  It was the children who finally unbound my tight nerves. The smaller ones had spent the afternoon outside, so they carried on for half the evening about the hounds and terriers in the kennels, the horses in the stables, and the cats and cows in the dairy. Tiny five-year-old Alexander told me he was already learning to ride.

  “I want to joust!” he bellowed, galloping toward Bear on an imaginary horse. The little boy’s face was pink, his dark curls sweaty from the circles he’d been racing around the table. The guard seized him wit
h a bright laugh and, before Alexander could charge into my chair, swung him up on his lap, lean arms holding the squealing child fast.

  “One day, little man,” chuckled King Constantine.

  The boy grinned broadly at me, and warmth filled my chest. “Gemma’s only three, so she can’t learn yet.” Alexander held up a few stubby fingers, shaking his head at a tiny girl with golden hair, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “She got in trouble for sneaking milk to the little kittens in the dairy.”

  “No,” I whispered back, feigning incredulity and giving his tiny shoulders a little shake. Alexander nodded, insistent.

  “Not very in trouble.” Gemma climbed uninvited into my lap. When I twisted to accommodate her, I found myself knee-to-knee with Bear at my side.

  He laughed in protest. “Gemma, that’s hardly polite.”

  I shrugged lightly. “Let her. I don’t mind.” With the child’s unself-conscious weight on my lap, warm as an oven in the chilly dining room, I felt natural for the first time all evening. Bear’s mouth quirked, eyes softening.

  “You oughtn’t to feed those cats,” he insisted, poking Gemma’s button nose.

  I passed a hand over the top of her head. “Don’t listen to him,” I whispered.

  Gemma flashed a little row of gleaming teeth. “Shan’t!” She curled against me, and Bear and I listened to her talk about kittens until she drifted off.

  Alexander joined his cousin in sleep sooner than he would have been proud to admit, given his two years’ advantage in age and maturity. “Someone can take them to bed,” Bear whispered, leaning over the boy’s head. My knees brushed against the rough fabric of his slacks, and I suddenly felt warm from head to toe.

  “I don’t mind,” I said again. Smiling, I adjusted my hold on Gemma’s shoulders and knees. Her mouth was ajar and drooling against my green flannel dress. Bear watched me, eyes still and intent.

  Perrault’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Do you expect many of the gentry to travel in for the tournament, Your Majesty?”

  Lang rolled his eyes at the protocol officer’s fawning tone. Constantine barely glanced at him. “Yes. With jousting in the morning, a melee later in the day, and a ball that evening, they could hardly stay away.”