Dragon's Keep

  I fell asleep, thinking not on the stolen scepter, but on the small found treasure of Kit’s smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Diviner Eggs

  SNOW AND RAIN GAVE WAY to sun, and nine more names were added to the Dragonstone. Still Sheriff William reported more deaths from footpads than from the dragon that spring. Bands of murderers and thieves were attacking travelers, looting and burning townships all over Wilde Island. Father allocated funds to the sheriffs in every shire to pay extra men to hunt down the outlaws.

  Spring filled the air with sweet scents. Bram the pigboy celebrated the season by stealing honey from our hives. Bram’s enterprise sorely disturbed our bees, who chased him round the garden and stung him twenty-seven times. I know the number of the stings for Kit and Marn were mending my gowns the day Bram went for the hives, and I was the one who tended him.

  Bram was as pimpled as a prickly pear. I treated him with pork fat and thrashed yarrow and swaddled him in bandages, saying the charm I’d found in Sir Magnus’s book. “Sting, sting of the bee. Remove thy sword and set me free.”

  That same afternoon Bram on some fool’s errand staggered into Dentsmore, still swathed like a dead man. This caused Jossie to swoon into a well. Bram pulled her out, though he told me later how she screamed as he did so, thinking he’d come to fetch her to her grave.

  Spring warmed to summer. On the day we held our yearly midsummer fair I went with Kit full of hope, planning to glimpse my future and test Merlin’s prophecy in a diviner’s egg.

  What a day Kit and I had together under the near-blind eyes of Marn. We downed steaming roundcakes and drank mugs of cider as we wandered past the stalls. For a penny you could buy a pretty bit of lace or gobble down a sweet. We watched jugglers and tumblers, avoiding the far end of the field where the barber was pulling teeth for a penny. (Screams and pleading cries to Saint Apollonia came pouring from his booth.)

  We cheered along with Father when Niles Broderick won the jousting match, then we sat under the maple tree with our apple tarts. A large gray cat crept up the lane toward the fair. Darting in and out of the stalls, it soon stirred up the dogs.

  “Be gone, hex cat!” screamed the miller’s wife, jumping up from her bench to slap the cat across its rear. The cat howled and raced past the acrobats, who tumbled from their human tower. Sheb Kottle’s filthy cur chased the cat about, barking and snarling, and children ran to their mothers, screaming. Three beer barrels were knocked over and one burst. Quick to the spigot, dogs and revelers went belly down, lapping up the brew.

  “Get ye out of there!” Bram’s mother dragged him from the frothy puddle. Beside me Kit’s eyes were sparkling. When the barrels were righted, music resumed, and as the pipers played “Come Ye to the Greenwood,” the townsfolk went back to their stalls.

  Niles Broderick, who’d been eyeing Kit from afar, came up to us and took off his hat. “Will you let your lady’s maid come dance?” Kit blushed but I made her go. How well they looked together and how gracefully she moved her feet in time to his. I watched him swing her round as the sun sank behind the hills.

  After the tables were laid for the Midsummer feast, Mother quit the festival for home. She hated eggs above all other foods, and diviner eggs, served raw as they were, sorely vexed her innards. Father bid me sit at the high table near Duke Newfund, but I wedged myself between Kit and Marn. Duke N. turned up his nose. Let him sneer. I would choose my best company.

  My gut still full from the doings of the day, I awaited Father Hugh’s blessing, then picked at the food. First came the platters of trenchers with venison in cream sauce then stuffed peacock, fruits, cheeses, and sculptured jellies washed down with apple beer and elderberry wine. Last came the destiny cakes and diviner eggs.

  Stars pricked the night above. Candles flickered in the summer wind as the chandler’s wife, Tess, took the goose eggs from her basket. Tess was a true diviner. Dressed in a blue gown with a crown of lavender on her head, she looked every bit the queen of fairies.

  “We’d better go now,” said Marn.

  “I’ll stay for the divining,” I said.

  Marn frowned. “I shouldn’t keep you out so late on the night of the fairies’ high feast.”

  “There’s no reason to fear the fairy feast.” Tess laughed, sweeping back her auburn hair. “Fairies have not been seen around here for more than six hundred years.”

  I felt sad hearing this. I’d wanted to believe the fairies still dwelled in our deeper forest lands where folk rarely wandered.

  “Kit’s egg. Will you divine it, Tess?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  Marn strode to the far end of the table, the more to gossip with her son’s wife, Fiona. Kit broke her egg and dropped it in her bowl. Tess’s luminous eyes widened. “Why, poppet, you shall break a heart. What do you say to that, my girl?”

  “She does not speak,” I said.

  “Now that’s a pity with such a pretty face.” Tess moved on to me. She wrapped her fingers round my little bowl and bent low enough for me to smell her lavender crown.

  “Ah, true love,” she said, gazing at my egg, “for the sweet and thorny rosebush is bound to call the bee.”

  “What bee?” I asked, thinking of the prophecy. “Is it Prince Henry you see?”

  She swished my bowl about then drew back, her dark brows tilting.

  Looking down, I spied a drop of blood next to the yolk. “What does it mean?” I asked, a coldness leaping to my skin.

  Tess turned her back, but I grasped her elbow and pulled her close. “You’ll tell me what this means,” I whispered fiercely.

  Tess looked about. “Not here. Anon at Miller’s Pond.”

  I dumped my bloody egg on the ground. Let the dogs lick it up.

  The villagers held a Midsummer game, floating little candle boats across Miller’s Pond. Niles fashioned boats for us, but I left Kit and searched for Tess. On the far side of Miller’s Pond I spotted her at last in the barley field. She was walking and speedily. I bounded after. “Tess! Tell me what you saw in my egg!”

  “I cannot speak now. I have someone to meet.”

  “Someone more important than your own princess?”

  Tess began to run.

  “You’ll tell me what you saw,” I shouted, but she disappeared into the field, the lavender crown falling from her hair. The edge of the night sky was scarlet. The windblown barley whispered, Red clouds without the aid of sun. Traveler beware. The dragon comes.

  It’s nothing but the last stain of the day, I thought as I quit the field.

  On the beach the castle musicians played “Threading the Needle” as the villagers danced in and out like needles through cloth. I would leave the fair and rush to the chandler’s cottage, where no doubt the woman hid. There I’d shake Tess hard and force her to spit out the omen. I was turning my foot toward town when Father caught me up.

  “Dance with me,” he said, twirling me around. We danced. Eased our parched throats with mead and danced more. I could not escape. From that hour on Father never let me from his sight.

  When we arrived home late that night, everything was astir inside the castle. Servants ran up and down the stairs, Sir Magnus shouted, Cook cried. Mother had fallen from her horse riding home from the fair. She’d lain alone for hours bleeding and unable to move. At last she’d gathered strength enough to ride back to the castle and now lay recovering in her chamber.

  Hearing the news, Father flung his cloak aside. “Why did no one come for me!” he shouted.

  Sir Magnus bowed. “The queen only just arrived herself. We’d thought her all this time to be with you at the fair.”

  Father rushed to her solar. I paced the floor with Kit and Marn and waited as Sir Magnus went in and out with herbs and bandages. At last Mother called me to her bed. I greatly feared the sight of her, hearing from Cook that she was gashed and bloody. “A rotting branch broke and fell right acrost her path,” said Cook, her fat cheeks trembling. “It was a fairy spelled the branch, f
or didn’t it startle her horse so bad he reared and threw the queen to the ground? She tumbled through a thorn bush, struck her head on a stone, and all was black. There she lay torn and bleeding for hours, poor thing. And here we were having our supper the whole time, not thinking a thing was wrong. Ah,” she cried. “She should never have ridden home alone on Midsummer’s Eve, for that’s the night of the fairies’ high feast. Mind. You’d never catch me out of doors on Midsummer’s Eve. Fair or no.”

  When Father bid me go, Kit kissed my cheek for courage. I tried to put on a smile before stepping into Mother’s chamber. I’d hoped to make her laugh with stories of the fair. But I lost my purpose as I slipped through the door. Propped in her bed with scratched cheeks, a swollen eye, and head and arm all bandaged, Mother looked for all the world like Lord Broderick on the day he’d skirmished with a boar. Her torn gown and bloodstained gloves lay on the corner chair. Sir Magnus’s herbs soured the room.

  “Come by me,” she whispered. I sat on her bed, clinging to the wooden post and looking at the fire to keep my eyes from her swollen face.

  The logs popped and I could see a roll of charred vellum burning in the fire. The edges of the vellum had already turned to ash.

  “There’s nothing to fear now, Rosie,” said Mother. She told me of her fall. The horse had awakened her with a nudge, and finding herself scratched and bruised, she climbed back into the saddle. “I was foolish to ride alone, but the evening was so fair and I long to be alone at times.”

  “Not with so many footpads about. You’ve told me yourself never to go without an escort!”

  “Rosalind, don’t talk to me as if I am your child.” Her eyes were hard as wet stones.

  I remembered Cook’s words and told Mother, hoping to soften her eyes again. “Cook said a fairy spell spilled you from your mare.”

  Mother tried to smile, her swollen cheek puffing out with effort. “Well, that’s Cook,” she said, her voice a little lighter than before. “It wasn’t a fairy. A raven startled my horse.”

  I frowned. “Sir Magnus said you told him earlier a branch fell across your path.”

  “I what?” Mother looked startled. “Oh, don’t believe Magnus,” she snapped. “He wasn’t there. I was!”

  Again the hard tone. “What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.

  “I’m tired and sore, that’s all.” Her voice was low again but heavy. She leaned forward and touched my hair. “You look so fair tonight, my little rose.”

  Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “Don’t cry now. All will be well with your Prince Henry across the sea.”

  “I cry for you. Why do you always have to bring up Henry?”

  “Because he’s our hope, Rosalind! Do you think I want my girl to rule an island plagued by dragons and footpads?”

  Why shout at me? I toyed with her coverlet, thinking I would be glad to rule here. Wilde Island was my home. But Mother was hot and cold by turns. Whatever happened when she fell had changed her. I hoped the change would pass away when her wounds were healed.

  “It’s late,” said Mother. “You should be abed. But call my maid before you go and tell her to burn the bloody gloves and gown. They’re torn beyond repair.”

  I called Lady Beech and left Mother’s solar, the smells of serpent’s tongue and blood mingling in my nostrils.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Witch’s Hollow

  BY THE NEXT DAY we’d learned more of the strange events following the Midsummer Fair. Sheriff William came early to tell us Kent the coppersmith had been attacked and eaten by the dragon on the way home from the fair. And also Tess was missing. The sheriff suspected witchcraft here, though he would not say in front of me the reasons he suspected this. Father closed the door. Pressing my ear to the crack, I tried to listen in, but their voices were too low.

  After the sheriff left, my head was in turmoil over Tess. I could not attend to my lessons on the dragon wars. Sister Anne was schooling me about the treaty signed in France, a treaty broken soon after by the dragons, when I paused to ask, “Is it true dragons cannot cry?”

  “What year was the treaty signed, Rosalind?” she asked.

  “Tell me, is it true?”

  Sister Anne sighed. “I am told this is so.” She put down her book. “Tears put out their inner fire. Once this fire goes out a dragon dies.”

  “So they cannot repent,” I said.

  “You should ask Father Hugh that.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Sister Anne crossed herself. “It’s better not to ask such things, Princess.”

  “Why not? A dragon ate the coppersmith and mayhap Tess as well. Even now they look for her. A murderer can repent before he’s hanged, but can a dragon?”

  “You cannot hang a dragon!” said Sister Anne with alarm. “I think you’ve had enough study for one day.” And she left with the haste of one who has need of the privy.

  With the dragon on the hunt I was forbidden to leave the castle without Mother’s or Father’s consent, but late in the day I tugged Kit down the stairs. Sneaking out the servants’ door, we crept over the drawbridge. On the grassy hill we climbed the maple tree for a better view of town and woods beyond.

  Up the lane in the graveyard, I heard the clanging of the stonemason’s chisel carving Kent’s name in the dragonstone. My spine panged with each pound of the hammer.

  High in the boughs Kit and I watched the sun running off with the last of the day.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to a meadow in the woods outside of town. “See the horsemen riding round in Witch’s Hollow?”

  Kit tipped her head to spy the sheriff’s men, her blond hair spilling from her cap. I shivered, looking on. Was the sheriff searching for Tess in that cursed place?

  “There sits a princess on her perch!” shouted Bram the pig-boy, giving us a whistle as he came up the hill.

  “Hush, clodpole.”

  “Call me clodpole and I’ll keep my news to myself.”

  I snorted. What sort of news could a pigboy have? “Have you stolen more honey? Where are your stings?”

  “No honey, Princess,” he said, rocking back on his heels.

  “Go away.”

  Kit covered her nose. Bram’s stink reached us both even in the branches.

  “Aye, you won’t hear of the murder, then.” He swung his arms as he started down the hill.

  “Wait!” We scrambled down the tree. “Tell me who was killed,” I said, my mouth going dry as salt beef.

  The pigboy crossed his arms. “Tell your maid to kiss me and I’ll say.”

  “Say now by order of the queen!”

  “I see no queen here,” said Bram, looking round the stand of maples.

  “You see the future queen. Now speak!”

  Bram leaned against the tree. “Six bread rolls from Cook’s larder and a half a pound of cheese,” he bargained. The boy was always hungry.

  “Three rolls and a quarter pound.”

  Bram gave a nod and pointed to his right at the forest beyond Dentsmore. “They found Tess the chandler’s wife there in Witch’s Hollow.”

  My skin pricked. I’d last seen Tess running through the blowing barley saying she had someone to meet.

  “Was it the dragon killed her?” I asked.

  “There were dragon signs there. Aye, the beast had come to Witch’s Hollow, but this killing was not his. He ate the coppersmith instead or haven’t you heard?”

  “I knew it,” I said.

  Bram picked up a stone and flung it toward the castle.

  “How do I know you speak the truth about Tess?”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I saw the corpse myself not half an hour ago as I was coming through the woods to town. Sheriff William’s men tugged me away but not before I saw the pool of blood on the grass. Stabbed three times, she was. The last time in the heart,” he said, licking his lips. “Aye, and it was gruesome sure. More blood than I ever saw at a pig killing. Much more.”

  Bram rubbed his hands to
gether. “She must have put up a fight. I was close enough to see the scratches on her face and arms, and there was dried blood under her fingernails. But the witch knife did the trick, and she was left to bleed to death whilst Demetra flew back to her cottage.”

  “How do you know it was Demetra did it?”

  Bram clicked his tongue. “Ah, well,” he said, his brown teeth showing too much as he smiled.

  “Tell me!”

  “The hag has come to town once too often. Didn’t you see the cat at the fair?”

  “Aye, Kit and I both saw it.”

  “’Twas Demetra’s kith-beast creeping hither and thither,” he said, wiggling his filthy fingers, “frightening the wee ones, and spelling the dogs till they frothed at the mouth.”

  Kit grabbed my arm and I felt her cold hand through my sleeve.

  “Ah, that wasn’t the cat.” I laughed, showing my ease to dispel Kit’s fears. “The dogs frothed from lapping up spilled beer.”

  “Spilled beer, was it?” Bram gave a guilty look, for he’d lapped it up himself. “Never you think so.”

  “A stray cat proves nothing of Demetra’s part in this murder.”

  “No? All signs point to Demetra. Didn’t she fly back to Tess’s cottage?”

  Bram’s logic had begun to vex me. “How do you know this? Did you see her?”

  “Myself?” said Bram, offended. “I do my best to stay clear of witches. I have pigs to look after. But I’m told she left the mark of the witch along the chandler’s walls. Written in blood, it was.”

  Kit and I crossed ourselves three times.

  “Too, she stole some coins, and magic stones, and a scroll.”

  “Scroll?” I said through a strangled throat.

  “Aye, something she’d given Tess to guard. Her husband knew where Tess hid those things, and he told the sheriff it was missing.”