The Little Dragons

by Rowan Starsmith

  “I’m sorry, but it’s all we have.”

  The Princess looked around her, taking in the whole cabin in one glance. “Well, make it up then,” she said. She scorned the chairs by the hearth, preferring to cross her arms and stand in the middle of the room.

  Maida resisted the urge to run up the stairs. She calmly ascended and began to change the bedding. Mother Peg pointedly returned her attention to the Journal on the table.

  A few minutes later, Maida came back down the stairs, her own extra skirt and blouse over one arm and a bundle of sheets for the laundry under the other. “Your loft is ready, Princess Liandra.”

  The plump young woman gathered her skirts and stormed up the stairs. “Welcome to our home,” Peg said as her silk slippers disappeared at the top of the stairs. There was a soft thump as she landed on the bed and Maida heard nothing more. Mother Peg turned a page in the Journal, her face set. Maida quietly returned to her Folk Tales.

  Maida began to think about supper. She opened the wooden box in the storeroom and marvelled at the array of foods it contained--sausages, dried meats and fish, corked earthenware bottles of mead and wine, fruits and vegetables. Some she had seen only a few times in her life, some not at all. “Mother Peg,” she called out to the Hearth Room, “I’ve barely seen most of these foods before. I don’t know how to prepare them.”

  “They’re not for you.” A peevish voice came from the bottom of the stairs. Liandra stood there, straight-backed and regal despite her short stature, red eyes and dishevelled hair. She still wore her court dress, but the tiara had been put away.

  “Our way is to share whatever we have,” Peg told her.

  “Not when King Anglewart’s daughter is in the house,” replied the Princess.

  Peg’s face darkened and she opened her mouth to respond, but thought better of it. She clamped her jaw shut and glared at the Princess. Maida had a sudden urge to laugh. Two equally iron wills in one small cabin. Had Mother Peg finally met her match? Then she remembered Mother Peg’s remark about saying yes to the King also, perhaps, meriting death at his hands. Now she began to worry about Mother Peg’s famous temper.

  “Where is the bathroom?” Liandra demanded.

  “Bathroom?” said Maida, who had never heard of such a thing.

  “We have an outdoor toilet,” Peg told the Princess, pointing to the door that led to a woven withy passageway protecting the path between the cabin and the outhouse.

  “Disgusting!” The Princess hesitated, but clearly there was no choice. She disappeared down the passage, returning with her nose almost curled up. “Disgusting!” she repeated. “And obviously you have no idea how to cook,” she added when she saw Maida’s attempt to prepare foods she had never seen before. “I’ll have to have lots of wine. Serve me!” she demanded. Maida, flustered, took time from preparing a separate meal for the rest of the household to pour the Princess a goblet of wine.

  Once the Princess began talking, she didn’t stop. “The pottery in this goblet is an inch thick! I’m supposed to drink from that? At the Palace we have crystal glasses for wine. And that’s a filthy little room.” She pointed toward the loft with her nose. “It smells.”

  Maida thought of the pallet she would sleep on today, on the floor in front of the hearth, and the soap and water she had stayed up late to wield the day before, and the work involved in washing bedding in the brook. She said nothing.

  “If there’s no bathroom, where do you take baths?” Liandra asked.

  “There is a bathing place nearby, above a dam in the brook. Or, if it’s too cold for that, we warm water over the fire and wash in that big tub, there on the wall,” Maida pointed.

  “Disgusting.” This was fast becoming Princess Liandra’s favourite word.

  Dawn drew near. Maida made up a packet of food for Rafe and placed it in her empty milking pail. She looked meaningfully at Mother Peg. “One of the goats is limping. Could you come and take a look at her?” Without a word, Peg picked up her stick and hobbled behind Maida to the barn.

  Rafe looked up from bedding a pen, delighted to see his beloved Mother Peg in the stable, which he considered more his home than the cottage.

  “She’s driving me mad!” Peg said to Maida as she settled on a stool. “I was hoping to go to Old Marya’s cottage tonight.”

  Maida led the first of the goats to the milking stand. “Well, we shall go. We’ll tell the Princess there is need of Healing in Marya’s household. In fact, you should check Lib, see how her pregnancy is coming along.” The rhythmic swish swish swish of milk hitting the bucket filled the small stable.

  “Marya’s mother was a Healer.”

  Maida stopped milking and looked up. “She was? Then why didn’t Marya become a Healer herself?”

  “There are always some from Healing lines that don’t have the gift.”

  And those from other lines that have it, thought Maida.

  “So we’ll travel to Marya’s cottage tonight and leave the Princess here on her own. She doesn’t want to talk to us anyway, except to complain, and she won’t run away. Where would she go? She might get her slippers dirty!” Peg snorted. “Can Rafe care for the animals, since we would probably be gone for most of two nights and the day in between?”

  “Oh. I was thinking Rafe might come with us. You said it was passably comfortable riding piggy-back on the way home from Peyoter’s cabin, and then we could travel fast enough to be there and back before morning. Your weight is nothing to him.”

  After thinking about it for a few minutes, Peg turned to Rafe. “What do you think, lad? Can you carry me around to People’s cabins?”

  He grunted happily.

  When the household roused from sleep that evening, Maida told the Princess that they had been called away to Heal. “No!” Liandra shouted. Peg and Maida both stopped what they were doing, shocked. The Princess jumped to her feet, her face reddening. “You can’t both go! And leave me here? All alone in the middle of the woods!”

  “But you’ll be all right here,” Maida told her.

  “No, no, I won’t!” Suddenly Liandra burst into tears. Maida went to her and reached out to touch her arm. The Princess jerked it away. “Don’t touch me!” she struggled to control her sobs. “Just don’t leave me alone!”

  “All right, all right.” Maida soothed her. She gave Mother Peg a meaningful look. Shortly, both Teacher and Apprentice crossed the yard to the stable.

  Maida urged Mother Peg to travel without her. “Rafe can carry the lantern and pack with you on his back, and he will protect you should that ever be necessary, won’t you Rafe?” Maida turned to the large man standing beside Mother Peg. She thought his big, round face might break apart if he grinned any harder.

  Maida sat by the fire mending one of Mother Peg’s shifts and trying to ignore the Princess’s continuous litany of complaints--the coarse pottery, the primitive utensils, the small Hearth Room, the tiny sleeping loft, the outdoor toilet. “I can’t believe all you have is that tin tub for bathing,” the Princess whined. “I must have a bath. I’ve been wearing this dress since yesterday evening. You’ll just have to bathe me as best you can.”

  “Can you not bathe yourself?” Maida was polite, but could hear the edge in her own voice. She must be careful. Her own temper was already beginning to wear thin.

  “A Princess does not bathe herself!” Liandra insisted. So, taking a deep breath, Maida heated water and prepared a bath in the tin tub.

  “Now you will help me off with my dress, and you will not say anything about what you see.”

  Maida paused, surprised, but then began the lengthy task of unhooking all the tiny metal hooks that held the bodice of the dress together. As she parted the fabric to expose the Princess’s back, she saw what it was she was not supposed to mention.

  “There are terrible scars all over her back,” Maida told Peg in the stable the next night.

  “Do you think Anglewart beats her? Or someone else at court?”

  �
�Maybe,” Maida frowned, “But they are in rows of four, like huge scratches. I wonder if it has something to do with the captive Dragon.”

  “Or a large dog, perhaps?”

  “It would have to be a very, very large dog!”

  Peg looked thoughtful. “They said a daughter of the King was killed by the Dragon, and other court children were injured. Maybe Liandra was one of them?”

  “Well, she doesn’t want me to ask about them, but we’ll see. Maybe she’ll trust me more as time goes on.”

  Peg snorted. “I’m not sure I can stand her that long.”

  “I think it would best for you to be on the road as much as you can, working on the Healers’ project.”

  Chapter 13: Gleve

  Through the kitchen window Gleve could see the stars fading and the distant mountains emerging as a jagged line, dark blue against the still-black sky. He covered his pans of bread dough with a clean cloth and left them to rise. A fire crackled in the grate. The patient was tossing and turning on his pallet. Every now and then he would mumble something. Father Mallory watched from the table, where he had several Journals spread out before him. “It’s a good sign,” he told Gleve. “He’s struggling toward consciousness.”

  Suddenly the patient began speaking urgently, although most of it was unintelligible. The words that did jump out clearly were “Dragon” and “mountains.” Father Mallory and Gleve looked at one another in surprise.

  Chapter 14: Melisande

  The Queen sat at an open window, tears running freely down her plump cheeks. Her gaze remained fixed on the front gate, across the courtyard below, although it had been the day before when the carriage bearing her eldest daughter had clattered through it, lanterns bouncing as it jolted down the street toward the town, taking Liandra away--far, far away, just when she needed her mother the most.

  “Queen Melisande!” A harsh young voice startled the Queen and she turned without taking the time to wipe her tears or compose her expression. The willowy young Thalasa stood before her, hands on hips and frowning. “What kind of Queen are you? Whimpering and crying like a beaten dog! Have some pride!”

  Before the Queen could respond, an older, deeper voice cut in. “How dare you, a junior waiting-woman, speak to your Queen like that!” It was Imelda, Head Waiting-Woman, coming to rescue the Queen, as she had again and again, ever since Melisande was born. “A Queen is also a woman, and a mother, but you would not know how that feels.” Imelda rose to her full height, which was considerable for a woman. Combined with her subdued but rich silk dress, she looked more Queenly than the Queen at this moment.

  The younger woman scowled insolently at her superior. Although she was a junior lady-in-waiting, she was a Rodolph, one of the most powerful families in the Realm. Her classic patrician face made it clear that, although Imelda was chief of the waiting-women and Melisande was Queen, she looked down on them for their roots in the minor nobility.

  “Leave us,” Imelda commanded her.

  Waiting just long enough, and moving just slowly enough, to reinforce her scorn, Thalassa picked up her skirts and left the room. The upper hinge squeaked, and the heavy wooden door thumped closed.

  Imelda released the breath she had been holding and sat down beside the Queen, gathering Melisande into her arms. “There, there, lambie,” she crooned, just as she had when Melisande was a tiny child. Melisande gratefully leaned into the older woman’s breasts and released the sobs that remained trapped in her hurting heart.

  “All my beautiful children, and now I’ve lost my last one,” Melisande moaned into the wet patch on the front of Imelda’s dress.

  “Don’t forget Farrell,” the waiting-woman reminded her.

  “I know, I still have Farrell, but he’s nine years old and thinks of nothing but swords. In another year his father will take him too, and put him into soldier’s training.”

  “At least your sons come to visit you from time to time. Few mothers can say that.”

  “Yes, and I love to see them, but they are changed. Torrie’s heart is totally invested in his role as Heir. Eldrin nearly has to be pried off his horse at the end of every night’s training. Once they become soldiers, there’s little time in their lives for their mother.”

  “ I know, I know,” Imelda rocked her charge gently back and forth as a new burst of sobbing overtook the Queen.

  The sobs faded into sniffles again, and the voice that came through them was suddenly angry. “They change when they become King too. Who would have imagined when I married that handsome, fun, passionate young man that he would become King, and start sending his children away for, for, the politics of it! And then that mad idea of raising that Dragon …” She broke off again.

  Now Imelda held her tighter, and a tear or two trickled down her own cheeks, falling into the Queen’s hair. They wept together for Ortrude, the Queen’s sweet, cheerful second daughter.

  The night passed quickly as the two women alternately talked and wept. Their tears had run dry when Imelda disentangled herself and went to fetch a basin of warm water. “Don’t forget the feast for that Ambassador from the Southlands,” she reminded her mistress. “Let’s get you ready.”

  Although Queen Melisande was short, and round of face and figure, she had always had the gift of looking regal. Straight-backed, expensively dressed, displaying her husband’s wealth in her jewelry, she was the ultimate gracious hostess. She could quickly find a spark of real interest in a guest and fan it into a lively conversation. The Secretary to the Southlands Ambassador was sitting beside her and she had discovered that he loved music. In fact, he played the harp when he had time away from his duties, mostly those lively dances that the Southlands people loved so much. Yes, he was enjoying the King’s musicians who were providing accompaniment for the feast; he thought they were very impressive. Melisande tensed a little when he looked fully into her face. Imelda had called in Raissa, a waiting-woman gifted with skill at cosmetics. Obviously, she had succeeded in covering the ravages of the night’s grieving, because Melisande sensed no response when the Ambassador’s Secretary looked at her.

  On the Queen’s other side, King Anglewart was talking with the Ambassador. Melisande caught little scraps of their conversation during pauses in her own. They were talking about trade, horses, armies. Her back was turned to him, but she knew he would be engaging and cheerful, his handsome bearded face relaxed and laughing, while at the same time he would be watching the Ambassador like one of his own hunting falcons scanning the ground, waiting for a slip, a hint, an opportunity to pounce on an unguarded word. He would also be watching the Ambassador’s cup, signaling the servant behind him to top it up every time the wine dropped by half an inch. It was, as always, exceptionally good wine, and exceptionally alcoholic. Queen Melisande had long ago learned to take no more than the occasional tiny sip for appearance’s sake.

  The musicians were taking a short break and the Secretary excused himself to go and have a word with them. There was no conversation behind her. Melisande turned toward her husband and caught him looking toward the lower tables with a hunger written on his face that she had not seen in many years. It was the look that was once hers, the projected longing that used to make a noisy scene disappear and link the two of them in exquisite, tingling anticipation of passion--a passion so powerful that he had defied his father and gone into hiding just to marry her.

  She followed his eyes. They led to Thalassa. Her attention was, in turn, all on the King. Her eyes were slightly hooded but avid. Her face shone above the deep V of her bodice, tightly laced to display her creamy young bust. Melisande’s stomach tightened.

  “He’s sleeping with her,” Melisande whispered to Imelda, “Or if he isn’t yet, he soon will be.”

  The Queen sat against her pillows dressed in her nightgown, silk sheets and an embroidered coverlet pulled up around her waist. Imelda sat close to her, on the edge of the bed. Thick curtains designed to keep the growing light of morning from disturbing the Queen’
s sleep held them in a private space. It was one of the few places where they could talk without fear of spying ears.

  “But my dear, he has slept with one woman after another ever since Farrell’s birth. You know that.”

  “But this is different. He looks at her like … like he wants to eat her up, like … like he used to look at me.”

  Imelda reached for the Queen’s hand, squeezed it comfortingly, but her face began to register alarm. “And a Rodolph.” Both women knew, too well, how important the alliance with the Rodolphs was to King Anglewart. Besides their old lineage and immense wealth, their estates were the key to the borderlands between the Westlands and the Southlands, a territory Anglewart’s father had won at great cost and the current King struggled to hold. For that very reason the bride Anglewart’s father had chosen for him all those years ago, the one he had spurned for Melisande, was a Rodolph, Thalassa’s aunt.

  “Imelda, I’m afraid. I’m no use to him any more. He wants me out of the way. Would he …?” She put her hands over her face. “If only he would set me aside! I thought he would send me to the Women’s Retreat House years ago, divorce me, replace me with a higher-born wife. Then it was a terrifying thought to me. Now it’s what I long for. I’m just so … tired!”

  A moment later a small squeak in the door hinge gave warning. “Excuse me, your Highness.” The voice of one of the kitchen servants came from behind the curtain. “I’ve brought your warm milk. I’ll leave it here on the table.”

  The hinge squeaked again. Both women released the breath they had been holding. For years Imelda had been dripping salt water into that hinge. Every time the Bailiff responsible for repairs had it oiled, Imelda restored its squeak.

  Imelda pulled the curtain aside and went to bring Melisande her cup of warm milk. She then kissed her on the cheek. “Goodnight dear Mel. Be careful. I’ll not leave the anteroom. Call if you need me.”

  Several days later, Melisande did call. Frantic, the Queen had pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed and fallen to her knees, clutching her belly and throwing up, over and over again. Imelda, helpless, held her beloved charge as the younger woman writhed in pain. She would not send for the King’s Healers.