by Shutta Crum
Thomas thought he heard a sigh from the ladies in the audience.
Then the king turned to the gathering and said in a louder tone, “Sir Thomas, while you are there, I charge you with ensuring that my apples and pears are not making their way into the bellies of others.” He turned back to Thomas, winked, and lowered his voice to add, “Except for one or two to Bartholomew. You understand.”
Jon was not at the feast. Afterward, Thomas ran to the stables. He carried a bowl of meat and vegetables that Dilley, the kitchen maid, had put together for Jon. In his pocket was a newly picked apple for Bartholomew.
When he reached the stables, Thomas found that Bartholomew had been moved from his old, cramped pen to the large stall that had been Heartwind’s. It was the stall that had for generations been reserved for the king’s favorite.
Jon hugged Thomas and crowed when he saw the dish. He pulled a warm piece of mutton out of the bowl and said, “I didn’t go to the hall to eat for fear I’d be made to attend the dance. You won’t catch me dipping and strutting about like my trousers are full of fleas.”
Thomas laughed. Then he fed the apple to his old traveling companion—patting the donkey and stroking his muzzle. Finally he turned to Jon and pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “What’s this about Marshal Wattley thinking you’re old enough to be a groomsman? Or that you’re just small for your age?”
“S-h-h-h!” cautioned Jon, looking around. “You may be the champion around here, but me? I’m conspiring to become the marshal of these stables one day. Wait and see if I don’t!”
Thomas smiled at his friend and then yelled, “Race you!”
Jon dropped the bowl, and they were off.
Late in the deep autumn, when the hills were awash with leaves colored in velvety maroons and brilliant yellows, the elderly king and his daughter traveled through the countryside with a company that included several knights, Jon and some other groomsmen, and Sir Thomas and his family. They visited a kind widow at a humble cottage, and they erected a stone monument to friends beside a shimmering pool.
Moreover, they raised a pavilion on the shore of a bay. Across the water, near the tip of a long causeway, lay the home of the dragons. The king had come to pay his respects to the dragon queen. Princess Eleanor had come to stay for the winter and to teach courtly manners, politics, and elocution.
That evening, just as a last thin line of gold from the sun rimmed the purple twilight, two dragonlets lifted their wings and rose into the sky over the peaks on Barren Isle. More young dragons followed these two. They drifted and turned lazy circles on the last thermals of the day.
In the pavilion, the king and the princess, Sir Gerald, Thomas and his family, Jon, and the rest of the company watched—mouths open with wonder. Isabel stood on her toes, stretched her hands up, and said, “I want to fly, too!”
In the years that followed, whenever Thomas was at home to tuck in the little ones, his brothers and sisters would badger him to tell them of his adventures. Isabel would gather the family together by announcing that they were to hear “a real tale of a real knight, Sir Thomas, Knight of the Realm.”
Then Thomas would tell his story, always remembering to end it like all good dragon tales …
“As was the way, it was done.”
The End
Acknowledgments
Thomas and the Dragon Queen was a gift. The words flowed like a torrent from my heart onto the page at a time when I was stuck on other projects that did not seem to be going anywhere. Yes, it was a gift—but it was an unruly one that needed to be tucked in here, expanded a bit there, and polished throughout. To do that, I relied upon the help and support of a good number of friends and critics. My grateful thanks go out to: Sam Ehnis-Clark, my grandson and middle-school-age reader, for his thoughtful comments; Jack Pilutti, another young reader; my friends Ruth Haldeman, Ann Hoadley, Susan Livingston, Sherry Roberts, and Paula Schaffner; and my hardworking critique group of Valerie Carey, B.J. Connor, Tracy Gallup, Mary Lind, Deb Pilutti, Jacqui Robbins, Ginny Ryan, Nancy Shaw, Shanda Trent, and Hope Vestergaard. Finally, I must acknowledge my husband and first reader, “Sir” Gerald Clark, for continuing to be my guiding light, and my editor, Michelle Frey, who unreservedly allowed Thomas to steal her heart.
About the Author
SHUTTA CRUM writes books for children and poetry for adults. She is also a storyteller, a lecturer, and a librarian. In 2005, she was honored by being one of eight authors invited to the White House for the annual Easter Egg Roll. She was born in Paintsville, Kentucky, and now lives on a farm in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Text copyright © 2010 by Shutta Crum
Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Lee Wildish
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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eISBN: 978-0-375-89629-3
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