Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  “It’s my fault,” I said suddenly.

  “It’s not.”

  “But—”

  Kit silenced me with three cool fingers on my lips. “It’s done, Rosie. The queen won’t change her mind.” She leaned closer to my ear. “Your mother must never know what happened to me in the orchard. Promise me this, Rosie.”

  I didn’t move.

  “You know it’s not safe for me here now that I can speak. How long before the queen discovers this?”

  “We’ll keep it secret.”

  She tipped her head. “Think, Rosie.”

  I couldn’t look at her face, her eyes.

  Kit unclasped the silver pin her mother had just given her and held it out to me.

  “I can’t take this,” I choked.

  Kit shook her head and pressed it into my glove.

  The next morning I watched Kit ride away with Sister Anne. Clouds shadowed the moat dark as stained wool as their horses crossed the drawbridge. In ten days’ time Kit and Sister Anne would reach Saint Brigid’s Abbey, where Kit’s mother awaited. I clutched her pin to my breast, my mother watching Kit’s departure beside me at my window.

  My breath came wild and gulping as my bright swan shadow rode down Kingsway. And in Kit’s hand I spied a slender apple bough. I knew the message there. “Don’t be sad, Rosie. I go where I can free my voice at last.” She held the branch out bravely, the small green leaves dipping in the wind.

  Part Two

  Wolf’s Bane

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Listing Ship

  THROUGH AUTUMN I was wrapped in sorrow thick as a sea mist. And when the winter snow fell I stayed by my hearth. But no matter how close to the fire I sat, I never could get warm. Mother brought more healers to Pendragon Castle. I submitted to their salves and I drank their potions, sour to sour.

  I turned sixteen and no news of dragon attack came that early spring. We were soon to find out why.

  One windswept morning I quit the castle at long last to ride again with Father. Through fields of buttercups and wild iris we galloped till we reached Lake Ailleann. Father slowed to a trot. “I’ve seen you sorrowful all season, Rosie.”

  “Aye.”

  We let the hoofbeats measure out the silence between us.

  “More than foul weather brought you down,” Father said at last. “Still you mourn your nursemaid.”

  I nodded.

  “And you miss the little lady’s maid? You have a good heart,” said Father. “I’m glad for the prince who will marry you.”

  I held my reins, gave Rollo a pat, and watched the first beams of sunlight winking on the lake.

  “You’re of an age to marry now,” continued Father as we rode on. “I wed your mother at sixteen. But we’re still waiting on Empress Matilda. Merlin’s prophecy rests heavy on us.”

  “It may be the saving of Wilde Island has nothing to do with marriage.”

  Father pulled Crispin to a halt. “What? You think never to marry, a beautiful maid like you? It would be a sin.”

  His words were fresh as bellows to dormant coals. And a little hope-fire kindled in my chest.

  “You’ll have Prince Henry. Only the best will wed my Rosie.” Then booting Crispin, he raced along the shore, the reeds swaying as he passed, like slender pilgrims bowing to their lord.

  The breeze picked up as we skirted Lake Ailleann where the water shone blue as a giant’s tear, with God’s Eye in the middle. God’s Eye seemed a somber place to me, it being the last vestige of what Wilde Island had once been six hundred years ago when Merlin took a year of silence there.

  I’d wondered when I was small if my destiny to restore Wilde Island’s place under the sun, as Merlin predicted, meant to return it to its magic days, and I’d asked Marn about it. “Ah, poppet, you’re a dreamer,” she said to me. “It’s sure the isle is swathed with a great many healing herbs from its magic days. But now it’s trodden down with all manner of men. The wild beasts will not speak to us as they did in Saint Columba’s time. Nor will the water sprites or fairies come out. They’ve all run skitter-tail from us. And it’s not likely they’ll return.”

  I slowed Rollo to a trot. Above us the sky was pearled with small white clouds. The newly risen sun beamed over the earth, and as I looked to the water, it seemed the magic was not gone but dozing like a sleepy child that would one day leap up, as a tot does from her slumber, and greet the world again. I dreamed of this as I rode behind Father, the larks high in the alders calling down to us as we rounded the lake.

  Lake Ailleann lapped lazy as a dog’s tongue on the shore as we wandered to the place where the yarrow moths were waking. We watched them break apart their waxen tombs one by one and struggle out. All the while Father stroked his beard and said, “Look ye, Rosie. Out of death to life.” And I crossed myself as I watched a moth creep from her shroud, unfurl her yellow wings, and flit skyward.

  Father traipsed through the rushes and picked up a stone. “Come closer by the water,” he called, “and make a wish, my girl.”

  I followed to the water’s edge, chose a round rock the small of a sparrow’s lay, and looked out to Lake Ailleann where the ripples whispered one to another. I knew if I could have my wish, I’d bring Marn back from her drowning death, rescue Kit from the nunnery, and go herbing in the woods with them forever. Marn would stoop in the cool shade calling, “Ah, here’s a rue plant, dears. Sniff the leaves and your head will clear in love matters.”

  I turned the stone over in my glove.

  “You think too long,” said Father. “Make a wish,” he said, closing his eyes. “Toss the rock.” He tossed his. “And be done.”

  I closed my eyes, tossed the stone, and saw neither Marn nor Kit behind my eyelids, but the image of a lover with his arms about me. In that vision my hand was fully healed, my finger shone pink as a rose petal. And I saw my gloves fall away like torn cocoons the yarrow moths had left behind.

  We left Lake Ailleann, skirted the woods, and rode up Twister’s Hill. There on the windy cliffs Father pulled Crispin to a halt and strained forward.

  “A ship,” he called through the swirling wind. And as soon as he said the words, the chapel bells rang out six times across the valley.

  “Something is wrong,” said Father. “See how the ship is listing to the left?”

  I held my gloved hand to my eyes to shield out the sun and saw the ship tilting to the side, its sails fluttering small as moth wings.

  “She may sink!” said Father. Off we rode to Dentsmore. Father galloped past the cottages, calling all the boatmen out. None had been to fish that day, it being Sunday and what some womenfolk called “my good man’s day-o’-slumber.”

  I waited on shore with the other women whilst Father and the fishermen leaped to their boats. Many were still clad in their nightshirts, Father having called them from their beds.

  As the boats pulled away the women crowded on the docks to call, “Not too far out! It be a Sunday!” And, “Heed the warning waves, my dear!”

  Sheb Kottle stumbled out of The Pig and Thistle, late to the news of the listing ship, but early with dire warnings. Padding to the dock he called, “She’ll sink before you reach her!” And though the men on the Dentsmore boats were too far out by then to hear him, he went on. “She’s sure to be a serpent’s supper! Daft fools! I say turn back, afore ye all go down together!”

  Kitty Wells, whose man was on a boat, took up a shank of driftwood and whacked Sheb Kottle on the head. He left off his predictions but set to moaning like a wraith, which spread the fear all round.

  Standing apart from the others, I looked straight into the wind, myself unsettled as my father’s boat reached the larger vessel. By now the broad white sails tipped sharply. I thought sure the ship would tumble over and go down a moment after. The craft did not topple as I feared but, escorted by the Dentsmore boats, slowly headed for the harbor. I could not see what set the ship a-kilter till they came closer in.

  A carriage arrived. Heari
ng the chapel bells, Mother had come to greet the ship, surrounded by her castle escort. She called me from the shore but I stayed on the creaking dock. I meant to stand there until Father’s boot was safely on the dock again, for the tilting ship, growing ever larger as it neared the shore, gave me a sense of foreboding.

  “Ah! They’ve caught a whale,” called Kitty, waving the driftwood above her head.

  “Nay! Not a whale,” called Mavis. “But a serpent sure!”

  I shielded my eyes and looked out. There, lashed to the side of the vessel, cresting and bobbing in the sea, was the thing that had nearly sunk the ship. First I saw its giant head, hanging limp, snout down in the sea. Then I saw the blue-green scales across its back glinting in the water. Blood washed from the deep gash in its side.

  “Dragon!” shouted Sir Allweyn, running down the dock.

  “It’s dead and conquered!”

  “We are free!” shouted the people on shore.

  Suddenly everyone was dancing: Jane with Kitty, Sal with Jossie, Sheb Kottle with himself. Then Jossie Brummer threw her arms around me, shouting and jumping as if a mouse were in her kirtle. She spun me round and round in a jig, till the sea and sky were all one color. All the while I reeled, joy and loathing mixed strangely in my heart.

  Mother flurried onto the dock arm in arm with Sir Richmond and Sir Kimball.

  “This will be a day of celebration for all Wilde Islanders!” she cried, and she herself twirled round on the dock with Sir Richmond.

  By the time the ships reached us, we were all a-scuttle to the tune of “Hey Diddle Da,” pipes tooting, drums pounding, and children singing all out of tune. By now I was swept into the joy of the dragon’s death and had put away the strange sorrow I first felt when I saw the beast.

  Father hopped onto the docks and wrestled Mother away from Sir Richmond. Fairly pushing the knight into the water, he kissed Mother there and then in front of all the world.

  The villagers shouted and clapped as the sailors hopped down to tie the galleon to the docks. Then, herding all but the royal family back to the shore, the fishermen set to work cutting the ropes away from the dragon.

  I could see only the snout, the beast being on the far side of the ship. I stood close to Father as the captain, dressed grandly in a torn cape and bloody clothes, stepped down to greet the king and queen. He doffed his hat to the cheering crowd on the beach, and bowed to Mother and Father.

  “I am Lord Godrick,” he said. “I’ve come with greetings from Empress Matilda.” And Mother swooned.

  It was too much for Mother to have in the same day the downing of her mortal foe and greetings from Empress Matilda. Here was the captain of Matilda’s ship, come to Wilde Island to pay homage to its king and queen, to invite the princess to Matilda’s court—and strapped to his vessel, our mortal enemy, slain.

  When Mother woke from her swoon she ordered a banquet brought from the castle to the very beach where we stood. There with billowing flags and bonfires we would celebrate our victory over the dragon.

  The boatmen tugged the dragon to shore. The music ceased. The only drumming now was the surf itself, pulling and pushing against the dead beast, washing over white then swirling pink with dragon’s blood.

  A youth with eighteen years or so on him came down the plank and stood beside me on the dock. He was of high rank, dressed as richly as Lord Godrick. His hair was black and his skin a rich brown, yet his eyes were blue. I’d never seen dark and light so finely combined in one person.

  By now the fishermen had laid the creature on the sand. Waves swept up to meet the beast, which lay head-to-tail the length of the ship that brought her in.

  “It’s a female!” shouted Sam Denkle, wringing out his wet nightshirt.

  “Ah, it couldn’t be!” called Sir Richmond, then coming round front of her, he laughed. “Why, so it is!”

  All seemed aghast at this, but I knew this news already, having faced the dragon once on Morgesh Mountain.

  My tongue went of a sudden dry as I looked on our mortal enemy. Ropes still wrapped about her, she lay tousled as a gown thrown on the floor. Her golden throat and underbelly gashed, her eye half open to the sun showing the black slit pupil and the yellow iris blooming out from it. The dragon’s neck was strangely twisted like a tumble of seaweed on the sand. And I thought as I looked at her how someone should take the time to right her head.

  “Come, Rosalind!” I heard the fear in Mother’s voice but I held my place.

  Townsfolk were gathering a distance from the corpse. Even in her death the dragon had a power that struck coldness to the bone. Salt wind stung my cheeks. I could not take my eyes from her to come away as Mother wished. Here was the monster who had year on year consumed our noblest knights. Here was the dragon who’d streaked our sky bloodred. Burned our cottages. Feasted on my people. Stolen Magda. Captured me, and kissed my claw.

  “Sad,” said the youth beside me.

  I drew back. “Sad? Her death is Wilde Island’s greatest victory!”

  He crossed his arms and turned to face me, his dark hair blowing across his eyes. “It’s good we killed the monster, then,” he said, frowning.

  Lord Godrick marched down the pier and slapped him on the back. “It’s our best victory, Kye,” he said. Then turning to me, he doffed his hat. “Princess Rosalind, meet my son, the dragonslayer.”

  Kye bowed and his father smiled. I cast my eyes downward then and saw a thing that sickened me. Hanging from Lord Godrick’s side was a fearsome weapon. Not a dagger as any man would have, nor a sword, though just as long, but a severed claw, green-scaled and curving down to a sharp black talon.

  “Rosalind,” Mother called again. “We’ll return here soon enough!”

  I fled the dock. I was so unbalanced over his trophy; the boards seemed to totter under my feet like a ship’s deck. I’d heard of dragonslayers sporting a severed claw in the dragon wars. And I’d seen many a man waving a bloody boar’s tusk above his head, or riding home with a stag’s antlers strapped tightly to his stallion after a day’s kill, but this prize haunted me.

  Steadying myself, I walked as nobly as I could to Rollo, held his mane, and lay my head against his strong neck.

  “Ride with me,” said Mother, opening her carriage door. “Sir Richmond will lead your horse back home.”

  I kissed Rollo’s soft neck and breathed his sweet grass smell before giving him to Sir Richmond. Then into the carriage I crawled. Door shut, we quit the harbor and bumped along Kings-way toward the castle.

  “It’s all come to pass,” said Mother merrily. “With the dragon dead we’ll soon recover Evaine’s treasure. And with the Pendragon scepter in hand there’ll be proof beyond all doubt that you’re descended from the Pendragons.” She clasped her gloved hands and brought them to her chin, her eyes brimming with joyful tears. “Oh, Rosie. I’m so happy!”

  I looked out the window, my stomach wild and churning.

  Back in my solar Mother locked the door.

  “It’s Sunday eve,” she said, pulling out her knife.

  “Not now.”

  But Mother removed her gloves, took my left hand and peeled my golden glove away to the horny blue-green flesh.

  “Don’t cut the nail too close,” I whispered.

  “I’ll take good care.” Always she promised this. The knife’s edge flashed in the firelight as she cut and scraped. A familiar sickening smell arose, the scrapings falling to the floor like a scattering of beetles. Veritas Dei! If only I’d not seen the severed claw. I wanted so much to believe I wasn’t dragon’s kin.

  “Mother,” I said, “that egg you drank to quicken your womb when you went to see Demetra . . .” I bit my lip remembering the giant shell I’d stumbled on when rescuing Alissandra.

  “Done!” said Mother, slipping on my golden glove. She shoved her knife back into its sheath, tossed the leavings in the hearth, and padded to my wardrobe.

  “In De-Demetra’s cave,” I stuttered.

  “Don’t talk of
the hag now, Rosie. Our happiness is here.” She petted the sleeve of my blue velvet gown. “You must shine like a jewel tonight. Lord Godrick will see your best side and he’ll tell Empress Matilda what a perfect match you’ll make. Ah, my heart is dancing. They say Prince Henry is quite manly,” said Mother, discarding the blue velvet. “Red haired and strong bodied.” Mother chose the green gown.

  “How can we go to Matilda’s court? I’m not yet healed.”

  Mother paused, looking first at my face and then my gloved hand. She sat beside me again and stroked my tangled hair. “Your father took you riding too far today, Rosie,” she said. “I’ll order beef broth to restore you.”

  “I don’t need restoring!”

  She touched my cheek. “Hush. You are cold.”

  “It doesn’t matter what gown I wear or how beautiful I appear. We both know I cannot marry!”

  Mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t spoil this happy day. I promise you the fates have turned.” Putting her arm about my shoulder, she leaned in close. “What say you to this, Rosie? You and I will go to a holy man in Wales before we meet Matilda.”

  “Why should he be any different than the rest?”

  “He healed a girl run over by an ox cart.”

  I was unimpressed. Mother went on. “She suffered a severed arm. In prayer this holy man rested the bloody appendage against her shoulder, and the arm grew back just as before. The girl got right up and drew water from the well!”

  I shook my head.

  “By all the saints it’s true. Sister Anne heard it from a monk who saw it with his own eyes.”

  “Well, this is news.” I huffed.

  Then slow and soft she began to tell her fairy story about sweet Princess Rosalind, pretty as a windblown flower, traveling across the sea for healing. Hands freed from her gloves, in France she met her dear Prince Henry, and he loved her with the full of his heart. I’d heard the tale of my future life a hundred times, but this night it warmed me like a balm.