by Moore, John
Alison was silent for long minutes. Eventually she said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Go to the city. You don’t have to marry if it won’t make you happy. The Princess will get you a position. Something with dignity. Possibly even something at the palace. You will move in court circles. Go to parties. Go to the Autumn Ball. Meet boys your own age. Have fun. Enjoy life while you are still young.”
“All right! All right, Papa, you can count on my support. But I’m not leaving you while you’re still alive. And if there is a trial, I’m standing beside you until it is over.”
“Agreed,” said the Baron. He leaned back in his chair. “Then let us put this conversation behind us and enjoy some of the excellent soup you are making.”
“I brought some bread from the inn.”
Alison stood up, but before she could leave Gloria popped her head in the door. “Is everything settled?” She looked at their faces and beamed. “Terrific. Come on.” She pushed the door wide open and grabbed Alison by the hand. “Let’s go and try on some clothes.”
In these enlightened times, the giving of a woman’s hand in marriage as a reward for valiant or chivalrous feats might seem a bit insensitive, if not downright uncivilized. Gloria herself had been heard to criticize the practice as an obsolete relic of a barbarous past. But it was a tradition that was entwined in the very roots of history, at least in the Twenty Kingdoms.
One of the earliest stories concerning the matter was recorded in the country of Alacia, when a young man in highly polished armor took up a post on the bridge over the Obitron River, and declared that any man who wished to pass over it must first defeat him in combat. It so happened that the ruler of Alacia, Queen Betty IV, was attending a garden party in the nearby town of Demesne. She sent her minister to inquire of the young man, in words that have come down through the centuries, “What the hell are you doing, you idiot?”
The young man dismounted, knelt before the minister, and gave him this story to take back to the queen. His name was Gaston DuNeasy. He had fallen in love with a very beautiful lady, to whom he had pledged his free will. She demanded that he wear an iron collar around his neck and apparently serve her in other ways that historians found too indelicate to record. After two years his ardor cooled, or perhaps he suffered an attack of good sense, and begged that the lady release him from his oath. Smirking, she said that she would release him if he could break thirty lances in thirty days. He proposed to turn aside every man or woman who attempted to cross until they could find a champion to defeat him.
The minister carried this message to the queen, who was not amused. The road was important to Alacian trade. She called together her cadre of knights and explained the situation. They agreed, once they had stopped snickering at Gaston’s predicament, that they could remove him from the bridge with no problem.
At this point most histories go into long and flowery descriptions of shining steel, charging stallions, and flashing lances. Here, let it suffice to say that Gaston performed the remarkable feat of breaking seventeen lances in twelve days, an act of chivalry unsurpassed in the Twenty Kingdoms. By that time he was also battered and broken to the point where he could not continue. The town elders were concerned—they said it would be bad for business if such a gallant young man died on their turf. Queen Betty took stock of the situation and declared that seventeen was equal to thirty, by royal decree, for this day only, and she had a nice solid dungeon ready for any mathematician who had a problem with the idea. No one objected. With great ceremony the collar was removed. Gaston, under the queen’s stern eye, was sent hobbling down the road. Seventeen knights returned to their wives and girlfriends, each to explain that he could have beaten Gaston anytime, really, but just felt sorry for the kid.
And here the story should have reached its rightful end, were it not for the fact that two years later Gaston DuNeasy returned, this time sporting leather underwear, pierced nipples, and a tale about a kinky babe named Lisa to whom he had pledged his troth. Queen Betty, never long on patience to begin with, did not send her knights to combat Gaston. She sent one knight, and an inexperienced one at that. When he was defeated she sent for the lady in question, handed her a wedding veil, a bouquet of flowers, and a fondue set, and had her married on the spot to Gaston, after which she ordered the couple to forever stay out of her sight and shut up about their damn sex life.
Okay, so it’s not a great story, and certainly not romantic, but Queen Betty helped establish a precedent that a lady’s hand in marriage could indeed be awarded to a knight for an act of courage. Her actions have been cited in hundreds of court cases throughout the Twenty Kingdoms. Gloria wasn’t just indulging a fantasy when she put together her plan. She knew it would work.
Terry laid the sketch on the table, using a candlestick and an inkwell to hold down the corners. Roland studied it carefully. It showed the various rooms of the manor house, with the door and windows marked. “That’s a pretty good sketch. Your man did a hell of a job.”
“Um, yes. He’s been inside before this.” They were in Terry’s room at the inn. It held a bed, a cupboard, and a round table with four chairs. Terry suspected the room was used for card games. But it was convenient for their plans. He had shaken Roland awake in the early morning, before the sun was up, so he could pretend he had been out reconnoitering. He half expected to find one of the girls from the kitchen with Roland, and was a little surprised that he was sleeping alone. Roland woke quickly and followed him to the other room. A single candle burned on the table. The windows were shuttered. Downstairs, all was quiet. They kept their voices low.
“Do you have confidence in him, Terry? Do you think this sketch is accurate?”
“I’m absolutely sure of it,” said Terry. And he was. Baron Wayless had drawn the sketch himself and sent it to Gloria, who had sent it on to Terry before she slipped out of Sulcus. “We’ll leave here before dawn, wait in the woods outside the manor, and go in at first light. The bandits have been drinking, my man said, so they won’t be easily roused. We probably won’t even see them.”
“Why do we wait until light? Wouldn’t it be better to go in now? Under cover of darkness?”
Terry shook his head. “They may pursue us, and we’ll have to ride fast. We can’t do that at night. We don’t know the roads, and the horses might stumble.” Actually Terry didn’t know why they were entering at dawn—only that Gloria told him she would wait for an hour each morning in the kitchen, and to plan his rescue for that time. “And we don’t know what room she is in. We’ll need to search for her. We can’t do that in the dark.”
“How will I recognize her? Are there any other women in the house?”
“According to my man, no. No women are staying as guests, or family members. If there are any maids, they will be in uniform. And the princess is wearing a blue dress.” This wasn’t true either. Terry knew that Gloria disliked blue.
Roland nervously pulled his sword half out of the scabbard and put it back in. Terry guessed what he was thinking. “Don’t try to fight off a gang, Roland. Just back away and use the sword to cover your retreat.”
“Right.”
“Okay.” Terry pulled his chair up to the table and marked the map with a bit of charcoal. “The main entrance is in the center here, with the grand staircase. Bedrooms are on the second floor. She’s most likely to be in one of them. Here’s the rose garden with patio doors on the east side, and another staircase, and here is the kitchen on the west, with a service stairs. The stairs are undoubtedly going to creak, but there’s nothing we can do about that. Just go slowly. The upstairs hall is carpeted, so that will help us move more quietly.”
The drawing showed a kitchen and a small family dining room at one end of the house, separated from the formal dining room by a breezeway. Since fires were most likely to start in the kitchen, this design reduced the chance that one would spread to the rest of the house. He drew Roland’s attention to this part of the sketch. “You enter through there,
the kitchen entrance, up the stairs, and search the rooms from west to east. I’ll come in through the patio doors and search the bedrooms on that side. We’ll meet at the top of the grand staircase. If we haven’t found her, we’ll search the lower floors.” This was a bit of craftiness on Terry’s part. It was going to be tricky, to bring Roland along and still make sure that Terry could claim full credit for rescuing Gloria. Unconsciously, he held his breath.
“Ah,” said Roland. He looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, Roland?” Terry said innocently. “Feel free to make any suggestions.”
“Well, it’s just that . . . I’m supposed to . . .” He cleared his throat. “You expect me to go in through a servant’s entrance?”
“Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.” Terry pretended to think for a moment. “I’ll tell you what. You go in through the rose garden, and I’ll go in through the kitchen. Same plan, just different directions.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Now, if you find the princess, take her with you and leave immediately. Don’t wait for me. The important thing to do is get her out of there. Of course, if I find her, I’ll do the same thing.”
“Of course.” Roland adjusted his cuffs. Terry had told him to dress in dark clothing, so he was wearing a black silk shirt, black breeches, and polished black boots. The shirt had silver buttons, his belt a silver buckle, and even the boots were tipped with gleaming silver, all of which negated the point of wearing black, but Terry let it pass. It wasn’t a real attack, and they weren’t going in under cover of darkness. He just wanted to see what Roland would come up with. And, he had to admit, the man looked pretty sharp. Terry wished he had brought some snappier shirts for himself. He was dressed in woodland colors, dark green and brown. He found himself hoping that Gloria would not see Roland.
“All right, then.” He folded the map. “Are we ready?” Roland nodded. “Then let’s ride.”
Like Terry and Roland, Gloria and Alison did not get much in the way of sleep. They hadn’t intended to stay up all night, but they had tried on some outfits, and that, of course, meant they had to try on some jewelry, and that, of course, meant they had to change their makeup, then they had opened up the bottle of wine, and in between chatting, and putting up their hair, and taking it down again, they discovered that they both wore the same size shoes, so of course they had to try those on, which meant changing outfits again, and pretty soon Alison’s closets were emptied, and the contents of Gloria’s trunks were spread across the bed. And at that point they noticed that the sky was getting lighter, and it would soon be dawn.
“It’s going to be today,” Gloria said. “I can feel it. I just know he’s going to come for me today.”
“Why so early? Do rescues always take place at dawn?” Alison was lacing up Gloria’s dress in the back. “If I was going to be rescued from a gang of murderous brigands, I would schedule it for the evening. Then we could go somewhere afterward and have a drink. You know, make a date of it. And why the kitchen?” She tied off the laces in a bow. “There. Turn around and let me see.”
It was a lovely pink-and-cream number with gathered sleeves. Gloria did a slow pirouette. “He has to be seen. I want there to be witnesses that he rescued me. That way there will be no doubt that he’s won my hand in marriage. Your father told me that the kitchen will be the busiest place in the morning. People will be dropping off milk and produce and firing the stove.”
“Yes, there should be a few people around. You don’t think this is a bit too dressy for a rescue? Shouldn’t a kidnapped victim looked a bit more—I don’t know—harassed?”
“I’m thinking that we might stop at a small chapel somewhere and get married on the way back. Roland’s family might try to contest the marriage. Miligras says that if we present the court with a fait accompli, it will be much more difficult to undo.”
“But don’t you want a big wedding? A big dress with a long trail, and candles, and an orchestra, and a seven-tiered wedding cake?”
“Of course I do. But what is love if a girl is not willing to make sacrifices? Anyway, half the reason we have big weddings is to make our mothers happy. And my mother is not going to be happy about this one, no matter what I wear.”
“Oh, this is lovely.” Alison took the last dress from the bottom of one of Gloria’s trunks. It was pale blue, a simple sheath of watered silk, with spaghetti straps. She held it against herself and looked in the mirror.
Gloria glanced at it. “You like it? You can have it.”
“No. Really? No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“I don’t care for the color. Try it on.”
“It would set off your eyes.”
“It’s too cold. With my blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin? A little blue is okay, but a whole dress will make me look icy. When my boyfriend sees me . . .” Here Gloria cocked a hip in a saucy manner and ran her tongue lasciviously across her lips. “I like to look hot.”
Alison giggled. “You are so bad.”
The princess looked out the window. “It’s time for me to go downstairs. Try on the dress, Alison. I’m sure it will look much better on you than me. If I’m not rescued today, I’ll be back in an hour. But don’t count on it.”
“Do you want me to go down with you? I can be a witness.”
“No, you need to stay away. We’ll want to testify that you had no involvement or knowledge of the plot at all. If anyone asks questions of you, you’ll say you were asleep in bed the whole time. So you stay tucked up here, away from the action. Terry will come in, confront your father, there will be a little swordplay . . .” She saw Alison’s look of concern. “Just pretend swordplay. The Baron won’t get hurt. And then my knight in shining armor will carry me off to safety. In a manner of speaking.”
“A romantic tale that will carry down through the ages,” Alison said straight-faced. “Ballads will be written about the pair of you. I hope you two have fun. If I don’t see you for a while, take my best wishes with you.”
“Thank you.” Gloria slung her bag over her shoulder and ran down the stairs. She really did have a very good feeling about today. At the bottom of the stairs she even had to stop herself from skipping. Down the hallway, past the empty rooms and closed door, across the breezeway. She went into the dining room. The Baron was lying on the floor.
“Oh my God!” Gloria fell to her knees beside him. He was unconscious but breathing. She felt his pulse. It was strong and steady. She sighed with relief.
She wondered what happened. Had Terry come in and been too rough with him? Or did he pass out from a coughing fit? She took a seat cushion, put it under the Baron’s head, and went into the kitchen to look for help. Another man, a laborer, was sitting against the wall. Blood was dripping from his jaw. His eyes were closed. She grabbed a towel and looked for the cistern to soak it. Not seeing it, she edged out the back door. “Terry?” She caught a quick glimpse of a man on horseback, before someone behind her put a sack over her head.
A rough male voice said, “Lie down quietly, and you won’t get hurt.” Gloria screamed and kicked out. “Ow!” the man said. “Goddammit!” She flailed her fists blindly and connected with someone’s face. The response was more cursing, but she didn’t wait to hear the full repertoire. She backed into the kitchen, grappled with the sack, and finally tore it free. A man in uniform, young, fair-haired, with a patchy beard, was holding his nose and scowling at her. Gloria turned and ran—straight into the arms of yet a third man, older, heavier, and hairier. He picked her up by the shoulders and slammed her on the floor.
Alison admired herself in the mirror. The dress fitted her slim figure perfectly. She turned from side to side, then tossed her head so her long brown hair swept her shoulders and fell across the soft, smooth skin, right to the edge of the neckline. Lovely, she thought. She pulled up the skirt and admired the tiny stitching. The seams were so carefully made that even if you wore it inside out, the dress would still look good. You didn’t see this kind of quali
ty in Bornewald—they didn’t have that level of dressmaker here. She hadn’t had a dress like it since she was a child.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t had a dress like this even as a child. Her family was always too much in debt. But she didn’t care, she told herself, she really did have a happy childhood. You don’t miss what you never had.
Alison reflected on Gloria’s scheme. She didn’t think much of it. It seemed silly and overly romantic—was all that deception really necessary? In all honesty, she just couldn’t believe the king would fall for it. He wouldn’t accuse her father of kidnapping. It was just too ridiculous. And why was Gloria so intent on marrying some knight? Oh sure, every girl daydreamed about a knight in shining armor who would ride up and sweep her off her feet, but when it came to brass tacks, was one boy really better than another? They all seemed rather immature to Alison.
She pushed her hair back behind shoulders. She was still facing the mirror, but her eyes were turned inward. It really would be nice, she thought, to go to the city. To visit the fine buildings and museums. To see a ballet and an opera. To hang out with the princess and hobnob with royalty. There would be lords and dukes and earls. They would invite her to their balls and take her riding in their carriages. There would be picnics in parks and parties on patios. On the downside, the food in the city wasn’t as good as in the country. Their cooks had to use a lot of heavy sauces to disguise the flavor. Everyone knew that.
But she would be away from Count Bussard. “Damn that man. And the sorcerer who controls him like a puppet on a stick.” Her father was right. It would be a relief to get away from this valley. She started to take off the dress, slipping the straps over her shoulders and pulling the bodice down over her breasts. Behind her the door opened.
She jumped and turned around, hastily pulling the dress back up. And then she froze, struck dumb, unable to move or speak.
