"My subjects!" the King shouted. "Lords, ladies, knights, men! We are here to celebrate a great victory. Sir George has defeated the dragon that oppressed us for so long." He raised his cup in a toast, then drank. "And he shall be rewarded!"
The crowd cheered and drank with him, but Sativa merely bowed her head. With all eyes on her father, no one would notice that her cup stayed on the table where it belonged.
"Kneel, Sir George!"
The shoemaker stumbled a little and Sativa prayed that he would not embarrass her father by sprawling at his feet. Someone must have heard her prayer, for the shoemaker managed to regain his balance and make his way to her father without any further mishaps.
Now Sativa drank as the shoemaker droned his way through his vows of fealty to her father. Someone must have coached him, she suspected, because he didn't stumble over the words as he presented her father with his sword.
Her father made him more than a knight – when the shoemaker rose, he was a lord.
This seemed to make him even more nervous – it took him a couple of tries to get his sword back into his scabbard, so that when he succeeded, a cheer rose up from the hall for the newly minted lord.
Even Sativa managed a smile at this.
"And as a final reward for his heroism, I have decided to bestow my only remaining daughter, Princess Sativa, on him in marriage this very night. My personal confessor and priest will marry them in the castle chapel after the feast, and if I'm not mistaken, Lord George will have an heir on the way before the night is through!"
Sativa's smile died.
SIX
Reidar sent his advisers away for the day, rubbing his temples. Wearing a crown was a heavier burden than he'd thought, even on the days when the gold circlet didn't sit on his head. Keeping the people of the borderlands safe while repelling invaders and dealing with a dozen attempts to steal his crown...and that was just this week.
He was sorely tempted to find some way to let the would-be usurpers wear the crown for a day, so that they might take on the cares that came with it. On the morrow, they could return to their normal lives with no desire to ever wear that treacherous circlet again.
But he couldn't, in conscience, do it. One man with too much power could wreak a lot of havoc in a day.
Or even one woman.
Reidar sighed. "Mother? I sent everyone away so that I might have some peace. Why are you still here?"
She stepped out of the shadows. The Queen Mother should not lurk so, but no one would have been brave enough to say such a thing to Regina. Not even her son.
"I have a matter of great importance to speak to you about. Alone," she said.
Reidar spread his hands wide in invitation. "Very well, Mother. Speak."
She glanced around. "Not here. There is something I must show you first." She beckoned imperiously, and stalked out of his solar.
Sighing, Reidar followed.
She led him to her own apartment. "Now, line up! Let him see you!" she ordered as she went in.
Reidar wanted to turn around and not follow her any more, but as the king, he could hardly admit to being afraid of what he might find in his mother's chambers. So he sighed again and stepped inside.
"Which one do you like best?" Mother demanded.
She'd lined up a bunch of children. Highborn, by the look of them, and all girls, though it was hard to tell at this age. They had no curves to them for they were all too young to be women yet.
"What for?" Reidar asked tiredly. "I don't need a cupbearer. If you want another lady-in-waiting, it would be better for you to make your own choice. I have no idea what to look for in a female companion."
That was a lie, but he managed to utter it with a straight face. He looked for the ship carrying Sativa every morning and every night, but there had been no sign of it yet. Still, he would ascend the tower again tonight, in the hope that he would see it.
"You like them pretty and young, yes? Well, pick which one you want!" Mother said impatiently. "You need an heir!"
The girls giggled at this, and some of them blushed. Maybe some of them were women, though just barely.
"I'm not marrying some girl scarcely out of the nursery so I can get her with child! Mother, I have a bride, who is on her way here now. Send these girls back to their mothers, where they belong. I will sire no bastards on the daughters of my sworn bannermen. There is no honour in such things. Better to hand the kingdom over to one of the usurpers across the border than fail in my duty as king. I promised to protect my people, not seduce their children!" Reidar glared at the girls, who quailed under his gaze. He softened his expression – it wasn't their fault they were here. They were good, obedient daughters who would one day make fine wives for other men of the court. "Girls, go home," he said.
He waited until they were gone before he rounded on his mother. This time, his voice was cold. "Mother, I am betrothed to Princess Sativa, and until I hear word from her father that she is dead, I shall keep my promise. But even were word to arrive at this very moment that she truly is in the belly of this dragon of which you speak, I still would not take a child to be my queen. We may have been children at our betrothal, but more than a dozen years have passed since then. I have no doubt she is a woman grown, and everything I could expect for my queen. She will not break her promise, and I will not dishonour her or myself in breaking mine." He stared at the doorway the girls had run through in their haste to escape. "Would you have my people think me a paedophile?"
She swelled indignantly. "I would have them think you are a king, seeing to his succession."
Reidar sighed. "As a queen yourself, I need not remind you that these things take time. Nine months, at least, and sometimes longer. How long was it after your marriage that you gave birth to me?" He met her angry gaze for a moment before he turned on his heel and left.
He didn't need to hear her answer. It had been seven years. Seven years of trying, and giving birth to his sisters and all the other children who had not survived long enough to leave their cradle, before he had come along.
If his people had to wait seven years for his heir, then so be it. They had a young, strong king. They would have Rudolf, a man with enough royal blood to stand in the heir's place until then. Now, if their neighbours would just stop attacking them for no good reason, Reidar might be able to get his people a little peace. For he knew he should have no peace from his mother until he was wed. And maybe not even then.
SEVEN
In the flurry of activity around the new Lord Shoemaker, Sativa slipped away before her welling tears fell. The crown princess could not cry before the court.
She barely made it to the corridor before tears blurred her vision, but there was no one to see her distress as she fled to her chamber. A chamber she had once shared with her sisters, but was now cold and empty.
No one had lit a fire in here, and horror enveloped Sativa as she realised why. She was not meant to return here tonight – she was supposed to spend the night in her new husband's chamber. Crushed under the body of some shoemaker, as they consummated a marriage she did not want. Had not agreed to. Would never agree to, while she was betrothed to Prince Reidar of Viken.
Her fingers flew to the ring she wore on a thong about her throat, a solid reminder of the boy she had not seen since their betrothal. The prince would be a man grown now, strong enough to challenge the shoemaker for his rightful bride.
The thought of Reidar made her smile through her tears. He would ride up on his charger, wearing armour like the knights who'd come to fight the dragon. Only he would come to fight for her honour, and her love. He would make short work of the shoemaker, before lifting Sativa herself in his arms and carrying her off to his kingdom.
Her heart swelled at the thought. Yes, yes! Reidar would save her.
Sativa darted to the table and seized a quill, then searched for a clean piece of parchment. She would write him a letter, telling him about the dragon and the shoemaker and Reidar would come...
/> Too late.
Because her father would have her marry the shoemaker tonight. Tonight, the lowborn boy would take her maidenhead and make her miserable. Would Reidar even want someone so tainted when he arrived weeks later? What if she was carrying the shoemaker's child?
Sativa shuddered. She would not give her body to a man who did not deserve it. Who did not love her. Better to be devoured by a dragon, like her sisters had been, than that.
As long as she stayed in the castle, she would not escape this marriage. Her father would force her to it, for he could not go back on his word.
But Sativa refused to go back on her word. She'd promised to wed Reidar, and she would. She'd leave the castle tonight, and by the time her father realised she was missing, she would be far from his walls. There was no time for farewells, and who would listen, anyway? Her sisters were dead, and her father had given her away like some bauble. No, there was nothing for her here.
Down went the quill. Instead, she collected what coins she could find. Her sisters had no need for money now, and she had no idea what the price would be for passage to Reidar's kingdom, she told herself as she pawed through the chests containing her sisters' belongings. For if he could not come to her, she would go to him. With him, she would be safe.
She bundled together some spare clothes, then donned a cloak in the hope that it would hide her. Sativa paused for a moment to say a silent farewell to her sisters' spirits and the home she had known for all her life, before she turned her back on it forever.
EIGHT
Sativa had managed to saddle her mare, Salt, and fasten the saddlebags to the animal, when she heard approaching footsteps. Swearing silently, she slid into the stall with Salt, praying that the intruder would go away. She held her breath as she peered through the gaps in the stall wall.
Whoever it was did not respond to prayers, for they came into the stable. One of the squires, she thought at first, until the squire came into view.
Sativa almost swore again as she recognised the flaming hair of the woman the shoemaker had been staring at all night. The one who'd been so indispensable at slaying all those monsters. She would not let her lord's bride escape.
"Who's there?" the woman demanded, sliding her dagger from its sheath. "Show yourself!"
Sativa sidled deeper into the stall, hoping the woman wouldn't see her. She refused to be dragged back to the hall, to be a prize for the shoemaker. The straw shifted under her boots and Sativa nearly fell on her behind, but caught herself in time. Salt lifted her head from her dinner and snorted at Sativa, blowing fragments of straw everywhere.
Sativa gasped in horror, the worst thing she could possibly do.
The tickle started in her nose, building until it was unbearable, as if an angry bee had lodged up there and wanted out. Sativa couldn't stop it. She couldn't.
She sneezed.
Damned pea straw.
The door to the stall flew open, and the flame-haired woman stood in the breach, blocking Sativa's escape.
Sativa kept her head down, hoping the woman wouldn't recognise her, doing her best to keep the horse between them.
"Princess?"
Too late. The shoemaker's woman was an observant one.
"Why are you not at the feast, celebrating with everyone else?" she asked.
Because there was nothing to celebrate. Not any more. And this woman would not stop her. Sativa took a deep breath, fighting back another sneeze, and told the woman so.
Her dark eyes widened in surprise. And disbelief. For who could blame her? A princess's life must seem like paradise to a commoner.
Sativa continued, "I am not a prize to be won. I will not be handed to that shoemaker in marriage like some pretty bauble." She wanted to say that she would challenge anyone who tried to stop her, but Sativa was no fighter. This woman walked like a cat on the hunt – the way swordsmen stalked each other in the practice yard. So Sativa closed her mouth and glared instead.
The woman didn't seem to notice. "George is no mere shoemaker," she said slowly. Then she gave the tiniest smile. "True, he was once a master shoemaker. But he is also a hero, a slayer of monsters and giants. He has saved maidens and whole towns from monsters. And he slayed a dragon at the very gates to your city. Your father has seen fit to make him a lord and give him lands to match. Any girl would be lucky to be allowed to marry such a man." Her voice swelled with pride as her smile beamed across the stable.
This woman wanted to be the lucky girl, Sativa realised. She wanted to marry the shoemaker, and from the way her eyes flashed, she considered Sativa her rival.
Could they come to some sort of arrangement? If the woman let Sativa go free, then she would be free to marry the man she wanted.
"I will not be a prize," Sativa said. When the woman didn't seem to understand what she meant, Sativa continued, "He does not love me. Though I sat beside him, he scarcely even looked at me. He had eyes for only one person in the feasting hall. You. The one he calls his squire, but you are more than that, aren't you? You are his lover."
Any normal woman would blush at such bluntness – Sativa even felt her own cheeks grow hot – but this woman looked like she wanted to laugh.
Instead, she glanced around, before lowering her voice to say, "I am not his lover. I am his partner, in that we slayed the dragon together. We have slayed many beasts together, but I think his hero days are done."
"Lover or not, his heart belongs to you," Sativa stressed. Would the woman force Sativa to lower herself to her level and make a bargain with a commoner? Sativa tried again. "You shall not stop me. I ride to the coast, and my betrothed. A man who loves me, or at least he did once."
For who could know what Reidar thought of her now? She had not seen him since their betrothal.
A smile flickered across the woman's face so fast Sativa thought she had imagined it. Then her expression turned serious as she looked the princess up and down with a practiced eye.
"Take only what you need with you," the woman said. "Food, water, weapons, and clothes that are suited for rough travel. Nothing that will mark you for what you are, because there are men on the roads who will take advantage of a lady. They will see you as even more of a prize."
Sativa drew in a deep breath, wanting to shout at the woman that she was no one's prize.
The woman finished, "You would be safer in your father's castle."
Sativa saw red. Safer married to a shoemaker? Forced to share his bed? "What would you know of it? A girl pretending to be a squire knows nothing of the cage that is a royal court."
This time, the woman laughed. A ladylike laugh, Sativa realised uneasily, just like her mother had taught her. And then she dropped the tiniest curtsey, as though she wore a gown and not a man's garb. The kind of curtsey a princess might offer her equal.
After a moment, the woman wiped her eyes. "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness, but I was raised in a royal court, a princess in all but name, alongside Queen Margareta's own children. And I could take my place at her side again tomorrow, if I wished. But I will not leave these walls without my armour, my weapons, and enough money and provisions for the journey, because I know there are monsters out there." She drew a dagger from its ankle sheath and held it out to Sativa. "Take it, Princess, for I promise you will have need of it."
Sativa swept aside her cape, revealing two sheathed daggers strapped to her girdle. "I am not a fool." Even if she now felt like one. How had she not noticed the woman's cultivated speech? And why would a woman so highborn want to marry a shoemaker?
The woman fumbled through her bag and pulled out a cloth bundle that she thrust at Sativa. "Then at least take these. Court dresses will be no use to you on your journey."
Sativa glanced down. She still wore her feast dress – how could she have been so stupid? She should have changed into something less showy. She should have bribed some other girl to wear her gown, to pretend to be her at the feast.
Here before her was another girl. But would she wear the gown
?
Sativa took the clothing. "I thank you. But I must repay you, and I will need all the coin I have for my journey, as you say. Wait."
She worried that she was making a terrible mistake as she stripped off her silk dress and put on the other girl's clothes. They were made of cloth as fine as anything else Sativa wore, and hardly scratched at all. A blessing. But to dress as a man...Sativa had to force herself to leave the stall, stepping out into the strange woman's scrutiny.
"They are finer than they look," Sativa managed to say. She bundled up her gown and thrust it at the woman. "Here, consider this a gift."
"I have no need for silk," the woman replied, dismissing it as nothing more than an ill-fitting gown. She was a fine lady indeed in her homeland. "Oh, no. I cannot wear this."
Sativa was growing desperate. Every moment she delayed, she came closer to being caught. "Every priest in the city is so drunk they cannot tell the difference between one woman and another. Yet in an hour, my father will command one of them to conduct a wedding, marrying me to the shoemaker. If you wear this, they will think you are me. Marry the man, if that is your wish. By morning, it will be too late for anyone to do anything. I will be gone and you will be his wife." Sativa's eyes implored her. "Please."
"My lady? Are you here, or am I too late?" a male voice called.
The shoemaker.
Sativa's breath caught in her throat. He was looking for her. "He cannot catch me here. He will stop me!"
To her credit, the woman did not hesitate. She took the gown from Sativa's unresisting fingers, tucked it under her arm and winked at the princess. Then she marched out of the stables.
"Lord George," Sativa heard the woman say.
"Thank God," George said. "I thought you'd left. Melitta, I swear I didn't know about the princess. I must speak to the king, tell him I cannot..."
Appease Page 2
