When at last the guards came for me, I was taken to the castle foreyard, where an audience could watch my torture in the bright good morning air. Sir Allweyn leaned over the bed of coals, taking special care to keep them hot with his bellows.
The air above the coals wavered glassy with the heat. I was sick with fear as the guardsmen brought me forward and made me sit on a stool.
“Don’t make me do this,” I pleaded. “Please.” I was gagged and blindfolded and someone—a man I think, by his awkwardness—removed my shoes and hose. I felt the shame of my bare legs and ankles exposed to the onlookers. Thus, with naked feet I was hauled to a stand.
“Check her for herb charms and sniff her for salves!” ordered Sir Magnus. More shame as large hands felt me up and down, touching even my breasts for hidden witch cures. Next the sound of sniffing: a man’s face at my neck and at my feet a dog’s wet nose. The cur sniffed up my legs and down then licked my foot and yelped. The man no doubt had kicked him.
“See how the beasts love her,” noted Magnus.
“There is a stink!” the man reported. “But no witch herbs or salves here, sir!”
“Good!” said Sir Magnus. I heard a strange low muttering in Latin, which I took to be Father Hugh close by. What prayer he said, I could not tell, but I knew he was good-hearted. In this entire crowd it seemed he and Cook were the only ones who hoped my burns would heal and prove my innocence.
“Take her!” ordered Magnus. I felt the growing warmth as I was led to the edge of the coals. Before the burning path my mother’s gown was twisted by someone to a knot above the knee. Standing blindfolded near my torture bed, I thought on the last thing Chawl had said before we parted, “Don’t forget your inner fire.”
The heat from the coals washed upward from the ground. I prayed to the Holy Spirit, who lives inside the wind, to blow an inner fire in me such as the dragons have.
Ah, God, the pain of that first step! The searing heat! I could smell my flesh burning as I hastened across the cruel bed. Stumbling sideways, I was righted and placed firmly on the coals again. I screamed into my gag, the sounds coming from my throat like a strangled hen. I walked forward. More agony. The rhythm in my head chanting, Fire. God. Fire. God. And the crowd about me moaning like a sea wind.
When I’d walked the devil’s road I collapsed and was dragged before Sir Magnus, who ordered my gag and blindfold removed. Unable to stand on my burnt feet, I stayed on my knees, breathing hard as a runner. Leaning over me as a priest in blessing, Sir Magnus, bedecked in blue robes and wearing golden gloves, took out a small vial and held it under my right eye, then under my left.
“See,” he said lifting the vial for all to view. “Not a single tear!”
“Ah!” called the miller’s wife. “It’s a sign, for witches and dragons never cry!”
“Aye, all know it!” called Jossie.
I swayed under the searing pain burning my feet. “The m-mask,” I stuttered. “It soaked up . . .” I couldn’t finish.
Father Hugh rushed forward. “We should wrap her wounds.” He bent over me and touched the back of my neck with his cool hand. “She’s in God’s hands now, Sir Magnus, and in three days’ time her wounds will show her guilt or innocence.”
Sir Magnus paid little mind to Father Hugh, but held up the glass vial to the sunlight as if the dryness of my eyes was proof enough.
“Wrap her!” insisted the good father.
Still on my knees I cringed as my feet were bound and the cloths knotted tight. With aid I stood on the binding cloth, pain sharp as hot pokers searing up my legs as I was led away.
After two days in the cell I was still in pain. Sweat covered me, and bouts of trembling. I sipped brown water, but could not touch my crusts. The rats were joyful over it. More fever-dreams came and now they were of Kye. My lover called me, but my feet were wrapped in molten metal. With a will to my legs I walked into his arms. Kye lifted me close and I could smell the sweetness of his skin. But when I leaned in for his kiss he threw me under a table as a feast-goer would a gnawed bone, and in the dream he shouted, “Dragon-filth. I’ve seen your claw!”
I screamed, awaking to the stench of my own foul sweat. Weeping I crawled about in the dark as one gone mad. If Sir Magnus had held his vial in the corner of my eye then, I would have overflowed it.
On the third morning I awoke to a tingling in my feet and felt hope stirring in my breast. This would be my testing day, where innocence or guilt was proved. I ate a bit of bread for strength and stood on my bandaged feet, counting to thirteen before falling to the straw again.
At midday joy-songs drifted into the dungeon. I crawled to the wall, and pulled myself up to the barred window. Outside I spied two men marching to the drawbridge with a Maypole. In a flutter of red and yellow ribbons three musicians played “Will Ye Come A-Maying” on their pipes.
So it was May Day. I took this to be a good sign. The window slit was too small to see the fullness of the foreyard, though I could hear hammering as workmen built the selling stalls for the fair. Pipes played and I saw a crowd moving about in the foreyard. All were signs of May Day preparations.
The cell door opened. Two guards gagged me and led me up the narrow steps. I walked to prove my healing, though there was still some pain. The sight that greeted me in the bright-lit fore-yard hit me with such violence I dry retched in my gag. Aside from a group of hooded Benedictine monks on the edge of the crowd, all the people in the foreyard encircled a gallows.
Villagers parted and grew silent as I was led to the stage beside the gallows, where Sir Magnus sat dressed in velvet robes and wearing a great gold chain that ended in my mother’s jeweled cross. On either side of him, sweating in the midday sun, were Father Hugh and Sheriff William.
Directly I was brought to an empty stool before them and made to sit, which eased my feet but not my heart. Father Hugh was called forward to unwrap my bandages for all to see. The good father’s hands shook as he unbound my right foot. The wrapping came away from my flesh, discolored, but untorn. With care Father Hugh inspected my foot, pressing first the soles then pinching hard each toe. “It’s healed!” he said. Cook cheered, but was alone in her cheering.
In heavy silence Father Hugh unbound my left foot. As he tore the final wrap away my skin tore with it. Fresh blood dripped from the wound. Father Hugh frowned as he watched the blood flow, and began a prayer in Latin, for he could not declare me healed.
“Ah! Ye can all see!” called Kate the miller’s wife.
“This proves her witchery!” announced Sir Magnus, tapping the cross on his breast.
“No!” I cried under my gag, but none could hear with the crowd shouting, “Hang her! Hang the witch!” I fought the guard who had me in his grip, but he was the stronger and he dragged me step on step to the gallows.
The rope swung in the May breeze and my knees went all to water as Cook lifted her hands in the air, crying, “Ah, she was such a pretty thing! Such a love-charm she had over all of us!”
The villagers bustled forward as I struggled with the guard and screamed into my gag for mercy. Sir Magnus raised his arms. “See how the witch calls upon the devil!” he shouted to the crowd. Then he held my mother’s cross before him and spewed Latin verses to shield his soul against Satan.
The village folk were all jostling one another, fighting for a good view of the gallows like rats to a meat bone. Cook was knocked over and trodden on, then I saw Jossie fall down screaming and flailing against the steps.
Before she was crushed, the guard who held me reached out to her, and in that moment I leaped from the gallows, landed on my bleeding feet, and rushed into the crowd.
Screams of “Catch her!” and “Hold her fast!” resounded as I plunged into the gathering, pushing, pounding, kicking my way through.
“Grab her!” called the guards, while the tanner’s wife screamed, “Ah! She touched me! Now I’m cursed!”
Sheb Kottle captured me, but I knocked him down and rushed right over the top o
f the old man. Breaking free, I ran along the curtain wall until a strong-armed Benedictine caught me round the middle.
I screamed and beat against the monk’s chest, but he lifted me so my feet were flailing in the air, and under the cowl I saw his blue eyes glaring down. He grimaced as he held me up, his strong chin clamped shut with the labor of it, but I knew the man and suddenly ceased my struggling.
Kye, older, taller, and gowned as a holy man. I drank in his face. I thought he’d come to protect me from the hanging rope, but Kye turned and carried me back to the gallows to the cheering of the crowd.
I flailed against him then, but he hauled me up the steps with ease, and with one arm tight around me Kye threw back his hood. The crowd gasped.
“You see that I am Kye Godrick!”
“The dragonslayer!” called a villager.
“He’s taken holy orders!” cried another.
“I have a thing to show the nature of this woman’s blood before justice is done!” Kye shouted.
My bones fluted hollow then, and it seemed an eastern wind rushed through them. Kye had seen my claw and he meant to prove my witch-blood now by tearing off my glove.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Blood Proof
STILL TIGHT IN KYE’S GRIP, I clenched my fists. Here was the thing I’d dreaded most: the day when all Wilde Island would see my beast-part and call me devil’s spawn. Ah, I feared it more than the witch trial or walking on the coals, for I’d had the full of my life to imagine the horror of that moment.
As I struggled in Kye’s arms, Sir Magnus came to a stand by the gallows, shouting, “Unhand the witch! We’ll take no orders from a bandit in monk’s guise!”
“I’ll keep the wench a while,” called Kye. “I have all rights. I fought alongside your king. My ship’s crew is here with me,” he said, nodding to the group of brown-clad men who tossed back their cowls. Not a single head was tonsured.
“I know more about this woman than any man here,” continued Kye. “I say hear me out before the noose is fitted!”
“Give him his chance to boast,” agreed Sheriff William, coming to Sir Magnus’s side. “He’s honored as our dragonslayer and the poor man missed the witch trial.”
I thrashed and screamed into my gag.
“Be still!” Kye warned. He brought me to his front, wrapping his strong arms about my chest, and the hold was like a dragon’s grip.
“On promise to your king,” called Kye, “I returned to Wilde Island after the war, and hearing his daughter had been stolen, I sailed to Dragon’s Keep.”
There before all, Kye told of coming to the isle with his crew, how he sought me on Dragon’s Keep and found all abandoned. As he spoke my claw pounded, and I curled my fingers inward. Kye was coming to the moment of showing my dragon’s mark to all, and I swore to myself, he’d have to cut the gloves off first.
“And now,” he said, “I have something to show that will give to all sure proof of this woman’s blood!”
I moaned into my gag.
Kye gripped me hard with one hand. I bent my knees and shoved my gloved hands between my legs as he reached into his monk’s robe. Sure he was going for a knife, I plunged my hands deeper between my thighs. He’d have to pry my legs apart to reach my hands. But a knife did not appear.
From beneath his monk’s robe Kye drew out a golden rod with a dragon’s head atop. The dragon’s ruby eyes shone blood-red in the sun.
“Queen Evaine’s scepter!” shouted Cook.
“God be praised!” called Father Hugh, crossing himself.
Kye held it aloft. “Here’s final proof,” he called, “that Princess Rosalind is of true and royal Pendragon blood.”
I stopped my struggling. Kye’s face shone as he smiled down at me. “You see?” he whispered.
Rumblings from the crowd. “But she was found to be a witch!” called one disappointed villager, no doubt still wanting to see a hanging.
“Was she?” said Kye as if surprised. “A storm made me take shelter in a hollow tree on Dragon’s Keep. And there I found a book written by the princess.”
How I blushed knowing my love confessions written on those scales, but Kye went on. “Did you know it was her brave effort that kept the dragon from attacking here?”
“It’s true there’ve been no attacks,” agreed Cook. I could have kissed her dimpled cheek.
The crowd murmured. Some nodded.
“And if you accuse her of witchcraft because she healed the sick,” Kye added, “I ask who among you hasn’t said their share of healing charms when the herbs fell short?”
Silence; a few coughs.
“We saw her dragon’s gown!” called another. These villagers were a stubborn lot.
“Made for modesty while she lived on Dragon’s Keep. Her gown was threadbare.”
The noose was slipping from the wizard’s grip. “Step away from her,” ordered Sir Magnus.
Kye went on. “Your princess kept you safe by paying out her time on the dragon’s isle.” Kye placed the scepter in my hand. “Honor her now as your rightful queen.”
I held it up. And under the sway of the golden scepter the crowd cheered. A few at first, then many voices came all in a rush. The sound washed through the foreyard like a great wave covering the mage’s protests; ah, even the sheriff and good Father Hugh were cheering.
It was then I called for Alissandra’s release and she climbed from the darkened dungeon as the sun will rise, shaking off the night.
CHAPTER FORTY
Talon
BY JUNE MAGNUS HAD BEEN TRIED, found guilty, and hanged. He swung from the very gallows he’d had built for me—for his young wife’s murder in years past and for my mother’s poisoning. The Fates had spun this rope to noose his neck alone.
In the following month on the feast day of Saint Felicity, Kye and I were wed in Saint John’s chapel and Father Hugh presided over sacred vows. I’d learned it was the good father who’d housed Kye and his men and given them monks’ garb—the more to aid me if my wounds were not yet healed, for soiled and stinking as I was, Father Hugh still believed me innocent.
On our wedding night I came trembling to our bed. I feared the moment when I must peel away my gloves. But in this my lover proved himself true beyond any other. He’d seen my claw before in the company of wolves, he’d read about my shame in my little book, and he was tender to my fears.
Under the soft rain of his kisses I took off crown and jewels, gown and shift. And like the yarrow moth who frees itself from its death shroud, I shed my gloves to Kye. He did not turn away, but lifted my hand to the candlelight. It was like the moment we’d shared long ago in the little cave beside the sea, when Kye called the dragon’s egg beautiful. He stared at my claw in wonder. He did not call it beautiful—the man could not lie—but he held the mystery of it to him, not as a separate curse, but as a part of me, his wife.
In part Merlin’s vision had come to pass. I’d saved Wilde Island from the wizard, but this seemed a small thing. I’d not had a hand in ending England’s civil war, not redeemed our good name, nor restored the glory of Wilde Island. The tapestry on my wall, aged by the sun, held a prophecy that was still uncertain. Empress Matilda quit her war with Stephen, though it was another five years before her son became Henry II, ruler of all England, and he was a married man himself by then, wed to Eleanor of Aquitaine. I wished them all joy.
In the sway of Merlin’s vision Mother dreamed I’d win honor for the Pendragons, ruling England and Wilde Island. But I looked at the starry vision with another eye. Merlin said I was to restore Wilde Island’s glory. Would the fairies return to Wilde Island to play in the meadow grass? Would the spirits sleeping in the trees rise up and speak to us again? These would indeed bring glory—a kind I understood, and Kye also. For he’d heard the pine trees all whispering this vision on the night he’d spent on God’s Eye.
We held the Midsummer’s Eve Fair on Twister’s Hill the following year. As the villagers danced about the bonfires that
roared high and golden on the cliffs, I felt such a rush of pleasure that I lifted little Tess, daughter of Sir Niles Broderick and Jossie, and took her dancing near the fire while the villagers sang. I was full of joy because I’d just learned I was with child.
I’d worried from the day we wed, that I was like my mother and could not conceive without sorcery. But my worries fell away and my joy grew as I felt a new life growing in my womb. Only Kye and Ali knew my secret, but I danced with Tess to celebrate as the sun was setting and the sky blushed pink.
On the high blowing cliffs before twilight it seemed the russet-colored sky was no more than the last kiss of the day, so I did not read it as a sign until I heard the pounding of the wings high above the cliffs.
Seven dragons swooped down from the clouds and landed in a half circle around the revelers. In the cool midsummer wind the dragons stood, their golden chests heaving from their long flight over the sea. I heard a familiar rustling sound as they folded back their wings, then all stood stiff as great stone columns, looking down at me.
It had been a year since I’d seen the pips but I recognized them all, who, apart from Ore, had grown nearly as large as their father, but the other four were strange to me. With our backs to the cliffs and the dragons stationed all around the crowd, everyone was cut off from escape. I feared for my people.
The pips might not risk speaking to me in the presence of their mates. Still, I handed Tess to Ali and stepped forward. Kye, brave man, came up beside me and together we faced the dragons.
We were on the hill above; the villagers below cowered on the grass, mumbling prayers or covering their mouths to weep into their hands. I waited under the first showing of stars. I should greet them in DragonTongue, but how before these people?
My mouth went dry as a barley husk in the power of the dragons’ gaze, their eyes bright as enchanters’ balls. When Chawl opened his great jaws and roared blue fire as he’d done when he bid me farewell that last time by the tomb, my flesh crawled in the heat.
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