The Beholder

by Anna Bright

  I swallowed hard and tried not to imagine hundreds of people staring at me, tried not to imagine one pair of blue eyes asking What are you afraid they’ll see? A nanny suddenly came forward and lifted Gemma from my arms, another taking Alexander from Bear’s.

  Princess Igraine beamed at me, reassuring. “You’ll enjoy it. There’s fighting, but there’s also wonderful food, and people come from all over to sell pretty things. And the dinner Friday and the ball Saturday will be gorgeous, I promise.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, managing a faint smile.

  “It will be,” Bertilak said, reaching for another piece of bread, “but I’m afraid preparations are going to keep me busier than I’d anticipated. I may be forced to cancel some of our plans, Seneschal-elect.”

  I fought to keep the relief I felt off my face. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Highness.”

  “But you must keep me apprised of your doings where I am unavailable to join you,” Bertilak said, cocking his head. The air around the table grew thick with curiosity, so quiet that I jumped when a burning log snapped on the fire.

  “Certainly,” I said, startled by his intensity.

  “I’m quite serious.” Bertilak pushed back his chair and tossed his napkin down on the table. “In fact, I propose this: at the end of every day, I’ll present you with whatever I’ve won or found or fought for, and you shall do the same.”

  “What if I don’t win anything?” I frowned, glancing from Lang to Perrault to Skop, but they looked as confused as I. “Aren’t we supposed to be visiting a school tomorrow? Your Highness, I don’t understand.”

  Bertilak shook his head, eyes gleaming beneath the thin circlet on his brow. “You’re a sharp girl. You’re going to be meeting people, having conversations. That’s what you’re here to do. I feel confident you’ll end the day with something interesting in hand.” Bertilak lifted his glass to me. “Do we have a deal?”

  I returned the gesture, my half-drunk cup of tea now tepid. “As you say, Highness.”

  23

  I sat alone in the front row of the Winchester village school. The auditorium was dim, the curtains still drawn on the little stage.

  Mothers and fathers and siblings sat in the remaining rows. I could feel their eyes on the back of my neck, feel their whispers like a fog swirling behind me.

  Sir Perrault and Bear stood against a side wall, half-hidden in the dark behind a screen. They were my only companions again today; Lang had been absent when Perrault knocked at his door to insist he join us.

  I glanced over at them, wishing they would come sit with me.

  Well, not Perrault.

  Suddenly, a little boy in a sweater and shorts climbed down from the stage, bowed, and handed me a bouquet. “Your Grace,” he lisped. I smiled and took the posy from him, lifting it to my nose. Violets, lavender, mint.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. He retreated, quick as a flash, and the curtain opened. A row of lanterns snaked to life before me, lighting a backdrop of greenery and papier-mâché stones.

  A girl in a smock dress stood to one side of the stage, expression serious, curls tight around her face. “Once upon a time,” she intoned, “there was a fearless knight named Saint George.”

  A small boy emerged from stage right, dressed in something shiny and gray, waving a stick. His shield was white, with a red cross quartering it, just like England’s flag. “I am Saint George!” he crowed. He lunged and jabbed with the stick, eliciting laughter from the audience, until the girl in the smock dress scowled at him.

  “Stop it,” she hissed.

  He stilled, propping one foot on a paper boulder.

  She continued. “Saint George traveled all over England, from Devon to Durham.”

  The little boy galloped across the stage, shielding his eyes from the imaginary sun. I stifled a laugh.

  “But one day,” the girl announced, “while riding the cliffs on the Sussex coast, he came across a dragon.”

  The boy dismounted his imaginary horse as a little girl shambled on from stage left. Blue ridges ran from her head down her back and her fabric-stuffed tail, and green fabric wings extended from her arms. At a nod and a glance from the narrator, the girl gave a roar and stomped nearer to Saint George.

  “I eat a maiden every single day!” bellowed the girl-dragon, high-stepping toward center stage. “Will you stop me, Saint George?”

  A crowd of children in drab clothes rushed in from the wings, acting—I guessed—as townspeople. “Only our princess is left, Saint George!” one boy cried mechanically, gesturing at a girl in a pink dress and conical hat. “Save her, oh please!”

  Reluctantly, the boy–Saint George tossed down his sword. “This shield is magical, full of power.” He lifted the buckler, its bright red and white paint gleaming in the dim room. “I will hide us beneath it.”

  The girl in the conical hat—the princess—shuffled forward, drawing near (but not too near) Saint George. “Me and my village?”

  “Yes,” said Saint George, spreading his arms wide. “Come and take shelter.”

  One by one, the villagers circled Saint George and the princess, surrounding them beneath the shield.

  The dragon scowled, feigning confusion. “Where are you, you foolish villagers? I will find you!”

  “You will not!” shouted Saint George. “I will hide us for as long as I must. Begone, foul worm!”

  Saint George may have been invisible to the dragon, but she stuck her tongue out at the boy-knight before she rumbled offstage, growling to herself.

  “And so,” announced the narrator, “the dragon left the village and its people, and was never seen in those parts again.”

  The curtain closed, and opened again, to thunderous applause from the audience.

  I stood and clapped with parents and friends as the children bowed and then bounded off the stage, running toward the lawn outside, where a reception was waiting for us.

  But long after the hall went quiet I stayed where I was, staring at the empty set, confused.

  24

  Lang came to my room before the dinner that night. “I think half of England’s currently quartered in Winchester,” he said with a sigh, shutting the door behind him.

  “Fantastic,” I mumbled.

  Lang frowned. “Is something the matter?”

  “It’s nothing.” I sat, squirming as the waistband on my gown pinched my middle—curse all these stupid, expensive clothes—and buried my face in my hands.

  Lang dragged a chair in front of my bed and settled into it. “Has something gone wrong with the prince?”

  “No, both our conversations have been very pleasant. All two of them,” I managed around my palms.

  Lang gave a low laugh. He tugged my hands from my face and folded them between his fingers. “If it’s not the prince, then what is it?”

  I thought of the incident the day before with the flowers. Of the play earlier, and its oddity.

  Godmother Althea’s book lay on my nightstand. I’d reread the old account after the play, just to be sure I hadn’t misremembered it.

  In the old story, Saint George had been traveling abroad, in al-Maghreb, when he happened upon a helpless maiden in need of saving. He did defend her, as the children’s play had shown; but in the old version, he’d slain the beast after three tries, with a spear and a sword, instead of hiding the villagers.

  The changes had been minor enough; perhaps they hadn’t wanted the children to pretend to kill one another. But then, why choose that story?

  Besides, I’d spent time with Perrault. Enough to know that everything—everything—about this trip and my welcome to England was being carefully engineered.

  “Something just feels off to me,” I finally said. “And not just the prince, and his age.”

  “You’re halfway finished.” Lang looked tired, too, I noticed, as though his nerves had been wearing at him as mine had at me. He studied our clasped hands. Carefully, carefully, I withdrew mine.

  �
�A quarter,” I said quietly.

  “What?”

  “A quarter of the way finished,” I said, my voice more wishful than I wanted it to be. “Half of England and all of Norge left to go. And then—home.”

  If the Norden prince proposed.

  If Perrault would let me bypass the Imperiya.

  If.

  Lang’s gaze lost its worn-out cast as though a match had been struck behind his eyes. “You are stubborn,” he said, baffled and admiring, both at once.

  “As a mule,” I agreed. “Perrault called me a backwater princess. I guess I’ve learned how to dig my heels in.”

  Stubborn, and lonely. For home and for my father.

  But I kept my forlorn thoughts to myself. My hands still burned from Lang’s grasp. I didn’t need him taking them again.

  He shook his head, nodding at the door. “Well, knights have traveled from all over to compete and earn your favor, at the dinner tonight and the tournament tomorrow,” Lang said, lips quirking wryly. “So go forth, my stubborn lady, and win hearts.”

  25

  The spring night was cool, but the banquet hall was crowded with bodies and hot with lamplight. Lang and Yu scanned the room, muttering to one another.

  Perrault eyed the place marker set for me between Bear and Myrddin, huffing. Nonetheless, he was determined not to waste time. As I took my seat, relieved at not being placed near Bertilak, he busied himself pointing out important members of the court to Cobie, Skop, and me. “There’s Lord Bedrawt, second cousin to Prince Bertilak, and his son Lord Bedivere,” Perrault said, nodding at people I couldn’t quite see through the crowd. Then he tipped his chin at a pale man with lank, curling hair and a boy about my age. “And that’s His Grace, the Duke of Cornwall, with his nephew, Tristan.”

  Bear’s quiet voice was so close it made me jump. “He goes by Veery.”

  A servant reached past us to set dishes on the table. I leaned out of her way, and my bare shoulder brushed Bear’s sleeve. I tried not to notice how well the deep green jacket fit his lithe frame.

  “What?” I asked.

  He was so near, I’d felt his breath on my cheek.

  The guard took a long drink of wine. “Lord Bedivere. Second cousin, once removed, to the prince. I’ve been friends with him for years. Goes by Veery.”

  I nodded, poking at my food, but didn’t speak.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Bear said, curious.

  My palm was sweating around the posy in my hand. “I’m thinking about flowers,” I said tightly.

  I couldn’t read his expression.

  Farther down the table, Constantine and Bertilak called out to Yu. “We should get properly acquainted,” Constantine urged. “Please, tell us of Zhōng Guó.”

  They were as intrigued by our ship’s doctor as they were bored by our protocol officer. The tables nearby grew quiet to listen as he told his story.

  “The floods brought death year after year,” Yu said. “My father stole resources from the government to stanch the waters, and he died fleeing capture. I was discovered on the scene.”

  “How old were you?” I asked.

  “Fifteen.” Yu’s eyes were grave. “I went on my knees to the zŏngtŏng, the president, and begged him for what my father had stolen.”

  “And?” Myrddin’s eyes were narrowed.

  “He asked for my plan. I proposed we survey the country, dig tunnels and canals, and build dams and lakes. So he gave me what I needed, and we got to work.”

  “You led this project?” I was in awe. I’d had no idea.

  “Why on earth did you become a sailor after that?” Bear asked.

  Skop grinned into his bowl.

  “Oh—sorry,” Bear said.

  Skop shook his head, unfazed.

  “I spent ten years on the move,” Yu said. I’d never seen his broad face so alight with intensity. “I studied my people, natural medicine, every centimeter of Zhōng Guó. Working in a government office wouldn’t have been a reward. It would have been a life sentence.”

  “Teaching, then,” pressed Bear. “You could have gotten a position at any university in the world after that.”

  Yu barked a laugh. “That would have been even worse! Days spent in meetings? Currying favor for a living? I may be older than you, boy, but I’m not dead yet.”

  “But Zhōng Guó.” Bear asked, “How could you just leave your home and your people?”

  Yu took a long moment to chew his bite of pudding, eyes dark and thoughtful. “Zhōng Guó is yet and always the center of my world,” he said at last. “Everything I do is for my country. For my people and my family.”

  Myrddin tipped his head to one side. “Fascinating.” And despite his melodious accent, the word and his gaze were sharp.

  I glanced around and suddenly realized half the room was following our exchange. “Seneschal-elect Selah of Potomac, of course,” King Constantine said offhandedly to some newcomers nearby. “Visiting the prince.”

  My heartbeat stumbled in the succeeding silence.

  “Relax. They’re simply curious,” Bear whispered. He cleared his throat quietly. “And you look very nice.”

  You do, too, I almost said without thinking. But I bit my tongue.

  “Your Grace,” Prince Bertilak called, “we dined tonight on venison my men and I brought home from the hunt. And Dà Yu brought a most intriguing account to dinner.” Bertilak cocked his head. “I trust you haven’t forgotten our bargain?”

  “Of course not, Highness.” I rose and passed him the posy in my hand. “From the children at the village school this morning. They performed Saint George and the Dragon and were very sorry to miss you.”

  Myrddin turned to me, eyes sharp and inquisitive. “What did you think of their adaptation, Your Grace?”

  I swallowed.

  I knew the story of Saint George and the Dragon. But the children had shown me quite a different myth.

  “I rather think,” Sir Perrault said languidly, “that the dragon should have been a wolf.”

  “It should not,” said Bertilak sharply.

  The room went still.

  Everything about my welcome to England was being engineered. I’d been shown that play for a reason. The razor edge in his tone left me in no doubt.

  I was being warned. Or, perhaps, if they expected me to become their princess, being prepared.

  If Saint George’s shield was England’s flag, then King Constantine’s England did not go abroad searching for enemies—be they dragons or wolves—to slay.

  Indeed, England didn’t slay its enemies at all. It hid, waited them out, protected those nearest them. It had repented of its sins, learned from its wrongs. From the wreckage left and the damage done before its brutal empire bled to death.

  Constantine’s Saint George stayed home and guarded his own.

  I merely wished I’d been allowed the same courtesy.

  Because there were worse than dragons abroad. And worse than dragons watching Daddy in Potomac.

  “I thought they did well,” I finally said, smiling as best I could. “The dragon, in particular—she turned in a ferocious performance.”

  The crowd laughed, and Constantine’s and Bertilak’s faces relaxed into smiles. And the room forgot me.

  I turned to Bear and whispered, low enough that Myrddin wouldn’t hear. “The flowers—these flowers. What did they mean?”

  The guard squinted down the table, eyeing the posy. “Lavender, violets, mint. Devotion, modesty, virtue.”

  No sign of the recklessness the prince had found so offensive before. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Beneath the rising din of conversation and laughter, I leaned close to Bear again and whispered in his ear. He wet his lips, inclining his head to hear me. “That day we stood on the green, you asked what I was afraid they would see if they looked at me. That—that was it.”

  His eyes sobered. “What do you mean? You gave a fine performance.”

  The tournament hadn’t yet begun
. But the games had.

  And I’d already been shoved onto a pedestal.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “But a performance, nevertheless.”

  The first day of our bargain. The sixth day of our stay. Another tick mark. So many left to go.

  I fell asleep with my book open to the story of Saint George and the dragon—the old account.

  I’d read it again and again, searching for anything I might have missed. Another warning. Another sign.

  When I slept, I dreamed; but in my dream, the princess was out to save Saint George. He pleaded for her mercy, and she rescued him.

  “Return home with me,” Saint George said when the princess had saved him.

  “I can’t,” said the princess. “I have to carry on.”

  “Come home, sweet girl,” said Saint George; but his voice, suddenly, was not his own. “I miss you.”

  26

  I woke to darkness and a sound in the hall.

  Winchester beyond my window was still swathed in deep gray fog as I blinked away my dream, pushed Althea’s book out of the way, and opened my door.

  Bear moved impatiently in the corridor. “Good morning, Seneschal-elect.”

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered, squinting against the lamplight. “It’s not even seven o’clock.”

  “And it already looks like a carnival outside.” He leaned in, as if to put a hand on my shoulder, then thought better of it; but his face was almost pleading. “Trust me, Selah. You don’t want to miss it all because you were asleep.”

  I met his eyes, bright blue and giddy as a child’s.

  I didn’t know what to make of this. Of him, like this.

  How could I say no?

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  Bear’s smile was a lit candlewick: tentative, and then glowing. “I’ll wait.”

  Tired though I was, Winchester was alive, dawning pink and orange and luminous. The cool air and the brisk clop-clop-clop of hooves against cobblestones swept away my sleepy haze and set my pulse surging. And down the high street, teeming with vendors and tournament-goers leading horses and drawing carts and bustling in and out of stores and homes and inns, Bear kept near me, hand just above my back.