Mistress of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

“No, my friend. I must do this,” Edward said in a tone that brooked no contraction.

  “You do not need to claim the child,” Gunderson persisted. “I know of a respectable peasant family who—”

  Edward cut him off with a gesture. “What are the arrangements, Draconas?”

  “Someone will come to fetch you or whomever you send”—Draconas glanced at Gunderson—”and take you to the baby. You will ask no questions. You will take the child and make no attempt to find Melisande. Ever.”

  Edward hesitated. Draconas eyed him.

  “Agreed,” said Edward at last, reluctantly.

  Draconas pulled on a pair of leather gloves, picked up his staff.

  “You will stay the night, of course, Draconas,” said Edward belatedly. “I would give you a room in the castle, but my father-in-law is visiting and there would be the need for explanations—”

  “Thank you, but I cannot stay,” Draconas said brusquely. “It was difficult for me to get away this long, but I wanted to prepare you.”

  Since Braun’s death, he had not let Melisande out of his sight. As for bringing the child into Edward’s family, Draconas had persuaded Anora to this course of action. The one piece of information that Grald had not ripped from Draconas’s mind was Edward: who he was, where he came from. Grald had not been interested in that, nor was the dragon interested in Edward now. Why should he? Grald believed that he had slain the lover.

  Anora had still wanted to keep the child and the mother as prisoners, for their own safety, of course. Braun’s murder had convinced her otherwise. Anora herself was in danger, for she knew too much, and there was no reason to think that she could protect the mother and the child. She might actually bring harm to them, for Grald and Maristara had seen that very plan in Draconas’s mind and in Braun’s.

  Stashing the child in a royal human household, where he could be guarded by royal bodyguards, was the best possible solution. Draconas would have access to him as he grew, and he would be the only one. Not even Anora would know where the child was hidden.

  “One other caveat, Your Majesty,” said Draconas, as he reached the stable door. “You can never tell anyone the circumstances of this child’s birth or its parentage. That includes the child himself.”

  “But if it is a boy and he favors me, people will know—”

  “People may guess, but they will not know. Since you are the king, they will keep their guesses to themselves. This is for the child’s own sake. Consider who might be searching for him.”

  “Gunderson already knows the truth,” said Edward. “And I must tell Ermintrude. It’s only fair. She will be the child’s mother.”

  Draconas was frowningly dubious.

  “I think she suspects anyhow,” Edward added with a half-smile. “I’m not a very good dissembler.”

  “I am against it, but what you do in your marriage is your own business,” said Draconas with an ungracious shrug. “The child’s safety is paramount. If any hint ever arose—”

  “It will not,” said Edward firmly.

  “You will be hearing from me,” Draconas promised, and he walked out the door and disappeared into the night.

  Edward returned to his chambers. Ermintrude rose to meet him. At the sight of his face, so pale and troubled and careworn, she went up to him and took his hands and folded them in her own, pressed them to her lips.

  “My dear,” he said softly, “could you love a child that is mine, but not yours?”

  “Is that what all this has been about?” she asked him, her tone mild and gently rebuking. “Is that why you have quit eating and prowl about in the foul airs of the night? All for that?”

  “I have no right to seek your forgiveness, but the child is blameless and the mother asks that I take him—”

  “My own,” Ermintrude interrupted, “you are not the first husband to stray, nor will you be the last. A child should be raised in the father’s house. Bring the babe and I will love him or her as dearly as our Wilhelm and our Harry.”

  Edward could not speak, his heart was too full. He held her close and felt his great burden of shame and guilt drop off of him. He came to her bed that night and, though they did not make love, they held each other and talked all through the night until, his remorse eased, he fell peacefully asleep, his head on her bosom.

  Ermintrude lay awake, staring into the gray morning and when he could not see them, the tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

  The wound he’d inflicted on her bled freely, but that was good, for it meant that it would not turn poisonous.

  29

  IF EDWARD HAD KNOWN, HE COULD HAVE WALKED TO Melisande’s house, for she was living near Bramfell, in a small village known as Sheepcote, so named because its inhabitants worked with either sheep or their by-products. The village was a collection of small, snug stone houses built by the owner of the local factory where weavers assembled to turn the wool into cloth. The factory was a relatively new innovation. By custom, weavers had worked out of their homes, but that meant that the wool had to be hauled to the individual houses, which were scattered all over the countryside, and the finished goods brought back to the warehouses. Collecting the weavers together in one location saved both time and money and it allowed the weavers the pleasure of socializing as they worked.

  When Melisande had discovered she was pregnant, she had insisted that they travel to Idlyswylde.

  “I will not be able to care for the babe,” she said to Bellona. “A son should grow up in his father’s house.”

  Bellona had argued, but not for very long or very hard. Melisande had never truly recovered from her ordeal. Her body mended, for she was young and strong, but her spirit was shattered, like a blooming rose struck by an early, killing frost. Her pregnancy was difficult. She was constantly sick, could keep nothing down. The midwife said comfortably that this was normal in the first three months and, though it was not quite so normal in the months following, she had known such cases and the women had all delivered fine, healthy babes.

  Bellona doubted, though she said nothing. She watched Melisande grow bigger and weaker every day, as though the babe was sucking the very life out of her, and fear gripped her.

  When they first arrived in Sheepcote, Melisande took a job in the factory as a weaver. As her pregnancy started to become obvious, she had to remain at home, for it wasn’t considered seemly for a woman in her condition to be out working. She had a talent for embroidery and fine stitchery, however, and the factory owner, quick to notice this, found her seamstress work among the nobility and the well-to-do of the upper-middle class of Bromfell.

  In between her work, she wove a blanket for her baby and it was during this time, as she plied her loom, that she was happiest, often singing softly to herself, a song about springtime.

  Bellona masqueraded as Melisande’s husband, a role she preferred, for she had seen how women were treated in this society—as chattel and property. She adopted men’s clothing and, due to her musculature and superb physical condition, she easily passed for a handsome, clean-shaven young man. She could not stand sheep, however, nor anything connected with them. Her skills as an archer won her a position as a forester, for the king had some fine hunting grounds located nearby, and her job was to see that no one poached the royal deer. Roaming the forests meant that she was often away from home, away from Melisande, but they needed the money to get them through the hard winter and Melisande assured her that she did not mind being by herself.

  The two of them were closer than they had ever been before, for now they had only each other to love and think of. They were everything to each other, spent time only with each other, shunning their neighbors. But there was a difference in Melisande’s love and Bellona felt it. A curtain, finespun as cobweb, transparent as sorrow, and ephemeral as happiness, had fallen between them. Not even fond affection could draw that dark curtain aside.

  Melisande had one other abiding passion. She was determined to return to Seth, to tell the people the trut
h about the Mistress. This determination kept her going through the sickness, the weariness, the pain, and the fear. She and Bellona made plans, spoke every evening of what they would do when Melisande was recovered and able to travel.

  The villagers left the young couple alone, though the wise women would often look askance at Melisande on those rare days when she ventured out of her house and whisper about how ill she looked. Gifts of venison would often appear on their doorstoop or someone would stop by with a broth to tempt “the dear thing to eat a mite.”

  Only one person was able to befriend the two and he was such an oddity that this strange friendship didn’t seem to count as such. The cottage next door came up for lease quite suddenly, its owners moving out unexpectedly. This man moved in. Middle-aged, dark-eyed, with a full black beard and long, graying black hair, he kept to himself, said nothing to anyone, and made it plain that he wanted to be strictly left alone. He became known as the Hermit.

  The Hermit did not go out to work. No one knew how he made his living or what he did all day. Bellona was distrustful of him, for she sometimes caught glimpses of him staring fixedly at their cottage. She warned Melisande to be wary of him and Melisande was wary, at first. Then came the day when she was alone and she needed water from the village pump. She was struggling to fill the heavy bucket, when a strong hand took it from her. The Hermit said nothing to her. He pumped the water, carried it back to her house for her, and left, ignoring her thanks.

  After that, if she needed water or wood chopped or the fire lighted or any small task done, he would instinctively know and show up to do it. He never spoke. He refused all attempts at payment. When she tried to thank him by leaving a loaf of fresh baked bread on his windowsill, the bread remained there untouched until one of the local dogs carried it off. The villagers popularly believed that he was mute, and the rumor went about that his tongue had been torn out as a punishment for blasphemy.

  No one liked the Hermit or trusted him except Melisande.

  “There is something in his eyes when he looks at me,” she told Bellona, “as if he understands and is sorry.”

  “We don’t need anyone’s pity,” returned Bellona, bristling.

  “It’s not that,” Melisande replied softly. “I can’t explain it. It’s as if he knows ...”

  Bellona looked at her sharply. “You didn’t say anything to him?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Maybe that servant said something. The king’s servant. The one who tried to give us money. I’m glad you sent him packing. We want nothing from that man.”

  Bellona talked on and on. Melisande didn’t respond. She found comfort in the sound of the beloved voice, though she often did not hear what Bellona said. She knew this hurt Bellona sometimes. Melisande could see the hurt in her eyes and she was sorry to have caused it, but she was helpless to stop. She heard only one voice—the voice of fear. It drowned out all others.

  Putting down her needle, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, sighing deeply. She was in her ninth month, her belly huge and distended, so that she could not stand without help. She could not sleep for the discomfort. The only relief she found was to lie propped up against Bellona, who would gently massage her back and rub her swollen feet. What food Melisande ate all seemed to go to the baby, for she grew thinner as the child grew larger.

  She could take no pleasure in the child, for whenever she felt its life stir within her, she knew only terror. She hoped the baby would be the king’s, but she could not know for sure. She would not know until the birthing, and she wished desperately her time would come and bring release.

  “Even the pain of childbirth will be welcome,” she said softly, placing her hand on her swollen belly, “for it will be so much easier to bear than not knowing.”

  Babies take after their fathers, so the midwife told her: Thus does nature insure that the father will acknowledge the child. Melisande held two faces in her heart—one face handsome and smiling, with hazel eyes that glinted gold in the sunlight; the other face hard and brutal, its eyes empty of all save cruel lust.

  One look at the babe’s face and she would know and she would pick up the remnants of her life, stitch them together, and go on.

  That midmorning in the spring when the new leaves were tiny buds on the trees, the pains came. Melisande sank down on the floor and wept for joy.

  Bellona was not with her that morning. She had not wanted to leave Melisande at this late stage in her pregnancy, but Melisande had persuaded her to go to her work.

  “If truth be told, you fidget me beyond endurance when you’re here,” Melisande said to her, smiling. “You pace about like a wild beast and look out the window and fuss with the fire, so that I’m either half-frozen or broiled like a chicken. You spoil my work by trying to help and I’m certain that you are the cause of the bread refusing to rise.”

  Bellona gave her such a hurt look that Melisande laughed, the first laughter Bellona had heard from her in many months.

  “I’m teasing, beloved,” Melisande said, nestling in her lover’s strong arms.

  “No, you’re not,” Bellona retorted. “At least, underneath you are not. Very well, I will go, but I will have the midwife check on you.”

  “Really, I feel so much better today . . .”

  “That’s because the baby has dropped,” Bellona said, with an air of wise experience, “which means your time will be soon.”

  “Pray God for that,” Melisande whispered, squeezing her lover’s hand. “Pray God.”

  “Are you sure you want me to go?” Bellona asked at the door.

  Melisande nodded.

  Bellona had not been gone long when the pains began.

  The royal forest preserve was located about five miles from the village. The walk was a pleasant one, over hills white with sheep and green with grass, alive with the sounds of tinkling bells, the shepherd’s call, and barking dogs. Beyond was the forest, its darker green encompassing the grassy green, its shadows enfolding and smoothing away the bleating of the sheep and all other sounds of the outside world.

  The moment Bellona entered the wilderness that morning, treading lightly on the path the foresters had worn smooth over years of guardianship, she sensed that all was not right.

  Born and raised in the monastery, which was, to all intents, a small, self-contained city, Bellona had only rarely been exposed to the wilderness and that only on hunting expeditions and training exercises. What she had seen of the wilderness, she hadn’t much liked. Accustomed to order and discipline and control, Bellona found to her intense frustration that nature deplored order, fostered chaos, and lived by her own rules.

  The more time she spent alone among the gigantic trees, which cared nothing for her, but lived their secret lives aloof, Bellona came to realize that there was order and discipline in nature, albeit not her kind. Everything in nature lived to die and died to live. That was the order, that was the discipline. Man fit into that order, but he alone was different. He fought to escape it, to avoid it. Nature might struggle briefly, as the rabbit struggled in the teeth of the fox, but the struggle was instinctive and, in the end, accepted its fate: The rabbit does not hunt the fox to prevent its death, nor does the fox hunt the lion.

  At first, this order seemed so cruel and uncaring that it terrified Bellona, as nothing else had ever frightened the stalwart warrior. But as she lived with it daily, she came to find it peaceful and soothing as the silence and the deep shadows. To know that this was order everlasting was to know God.

  Stepping inside the forest that morning, Bellona sensed that God had been disturbed.

  She heard it first in the silence, which was too silent. No squirrels played at games in the trees, leaping from branch to branch with a childlike sense of fun. No deer started at the sight of her and dashed off, their white tails flashing the warning of her presence. No wolf trotted across her path, keeping an eye on her, but not really minding her, absorbed in his own affairs. The animals had gone to g
round.

  “Poachers,” thought Bellona and she drew her bow and nocked an arrow.

  She had come to feel protective of this wilderness and the thought of poachers snaring her rabbits and slaying her deer angered her.

  She moved deeper into the woods, watching and listening. Her vigilance was rewarded. She heard voices. She was startled by this, for the voices were not hushed or whispering, as might be expected from outlaws. They were raised in normal tones. Perhaps the king or some of his noble friends had come hunting unannounced.

  She crept forward and, as she drew closer, she could hear the voices more clearly. The voices were those of women.

  Truth flashed upon her in an instant. Bellona knew immediately that the warrior women of Seth had found them. She knew because she had long expected and feared it.

  Panicked instinct urged her to race back immediately to protect Melisande. Cooler logic suggested that she had time to see for herself what she was up against. Strangers of any sort were rare in the village. Accustomed to defending themselves from raiders after their sheep or bears after their food, the villagers were suspicious of anyone they did not know. They fought with crude weapons and were not trained to a soldier’s standards, but they could hold their own. They would not let any armed soldiers enter their town without putting up a fight.

  Bellona crept closer, moving with the stealthy care she had learned from the fox and the rabbit. She placed herself in a position to see and hear, without being seen or heard.

  The first woman she saw was Nzangia.

  Nzangia had twelve warriors with her. They wore huntsmen’s garb to avoid attracting attention, disguising themselves as men, as Bellona had done. They had not come to do battle, for they wore no chain or plate armor, carried no shield or spear. Their helms were of leather, not steel. They were armed with bows and arrows and small short swords, as would any hunter. This was to be a stealthy operation, most likely carried out after nightfall.

  “You have spied out the house?” Nzangia asked.

  “We have, Commander,” said one. “It is on the outskirts of the village. Several other houses are nearby and they are inhabited—”