Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  The dragon wheeled above the trees.

  “Magda!” I screamed through the bars, but she could not hear me on the hill. With the dragon closing in she hadn’t time to find a place to hide.

  Magda dropped her basket and clung to the apple tree, her red dress fluttering in the dragon’s hot wind, and her hair, white as thistledown, streaming out behind.

  The slayers raced up the hill, swords drawn, their helmets red as coals in the waning light. But before they reached the orchard, the beast swooped down, caught Magda in his claws, and winged skyward again.

  He’d plucked her up as gently as she’d picked the pippins from the bough. Then circling once as if to show us his prize, he winged my Magda out to sea.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dragonstone

  THREE DAYS AND NIGHTS I stayed in my solar, wretched and sleepless. Father Hugh climbed the stair to pray with me for Magda’s soul. Our castle astrologer, the hated Sir Magnus, stuffed sticklewort under my head to help me sleep. I didn’t.

  Each time I closed my eyes I saw the dragon’s form, and the sounds of his attack echoed in my head. Not the memory of the warning bells, nor Magda’s screams nor mine, but the drumming of my beast mark and the dragon’s wings pounding in one time together. The strange of it. The cruel wonder of it. That my cursed part should drum with him, even as he flew away with Magda. This secret I could tell no one if I did not wish to burn.

  At last on Saint Crispin’s day I quit my room to ride with Father. The king was often too busy training up his knights to spend time with his daughter, so when he called me to the stables I went. Our forest roads were dangerous. Gangs of outlaws hid in the byways waiting to rob unwary travelers, but with my father I was safe.

  We rode our mounts alongside Kaydon River, avoiding the apple orchard where Magda’s tree still stood, burned black as a crow’s wing from the dragon’s fire. At midday, we halted on the high hill across from Pendragon Castle. A slender sunlit ray falling through the branches haloed Father’s red hair and fell on his blue cloak as sunlight on water.

  The tall grass parted in the graveyard below where the stonemason climbed the hill. Chisel in hand, he passed the Pendragon tomb and stopped to gaze up at the Dragonstone. The monolith was carved top to bottom with the names of the dragon’s prey. My father cleared his throat as if to call out to the man, but no words followed the low rumbling. He patted his horse’s neck instead.

  I leaned closer into Rollo’s mane and smelled the sweat along his neck. I wished for all the world that I could snuff out the vision of Magda’s death as one snuffs out a candle.

  “Come, Rosalind,” said Father, turning his dark horse down the path.

  Rooks took flight as we passed the graveyard, the clang of the mason’s chisel riveting my bones. The dark of my father’s eyes was like the sea on winter nights when it seems nothing living swims beneath. How many slayers he had trained up to kill the dragon. Still the beast haunted our waking and our sleeping like a demon cut to the shape of our fear.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “Nor yours, Rosie.”

  “I sent the child out for apples!”

  Father flinched then regained the steady look he often gave when I shouted. “You wanted apples for Saint Luke’s feast, and there was no harm in sending her. The dragon came on us swiftly and without warning.”

  We skirted the high castle wall, riding past the drawbridge, where the guards hailed us. Galloping up Twister’s Hill, Father raised his hand and halted. On the sea cliff ahead of us, my mother stood with her back to us gazing out to sea. She often looked southeast in the direction of our ancestral home, though England had banished our branch of the Pendragon family six hundred years ago and sent us here to rot.

  Civil war waged across the water as Empress Matilda challenged King Stephen’s right to the English throne. It was beyond my mind that I should have the power as the twenty-first queen to redeem our family name and end war besides. But Mother had high plans.

  Father gazed up the hill at his queen, and I saw the sadness slowly lifting from his face. Putting a finger to his lips, he leaped from his horse, crept through the grass, took Mother by the waist, and spun her round.

  “Gavin!” cried Mother. “You frightened me!”

  Father drew her close and kissed her. Mother pulled away. “Our daughter watches.”

  “Let Rosie see,” said Father. “She’s fourteen and she’ll be married soon enough.”

  I turned Rollo about. Father had never seen the mark that hid beneath my glove, so he couldn’t know how his talk of marriage put a hollow ache inside my breast. Before I left the hill Mother called, “Ride homeward now. A healer comes tonight.”

  “She’s well enough,” said Father. Mother made her reply as I rode off. I knew she’d say my liver troubled me or tell some other lie to justify the healer. I urged Rollo to a canter, raced past the drawbridge and up to the wooded hills. Avoiding orchard and graveyard, I headed once more for Kaydon River.

  God’s bones! How I hated healers! Young and sprightly or old and toothless, it did not matter. A visit meant submitting to their bloodletting or their stinking toadflax leaves. The healers never saw my naked hand and so had to guess at my ailment. Some applied poultices and charms for bone ache. Others burned wormwood and sorrel to banish evil spirits, or bid me drink Saint-John’s-wort to balance my humors.

  The last healer, a man with a braided beard who stank of garlic, guessed I had cramps from my monthly courses and wrapped an eel skin around my knee!

  My knee! As if that would heal my hand!

  Still worse than any of these was our own Sir Magnus, who’d come eight years ago, selling himself as a wondrous physician. Failing to heal me, he’d stayed on as court astrologer and settled in the high crow’s nest with his books, bones, and potions. The venomous mage beguiled Mother with his starry predictions and filled her with honeyed poppy.

  “I’ll turn the next one away,” I told Rollo. But I knew even as I said it I would not.

  What if this healer had my cure?

  At twilight I was called to Mother’s solar to await the healer’s visit. As I watched the evening drifting slow to dark, two swallows darted past the window.

  “Look,” I said.

  Mother left her loom. We watched the swallows fly round and round each other as if binding a bow.

  “A sign of love to come,” said Mother happily.

  “Will love come to me?” Most of the maids about Wilde Island were married by my age.

  “It will, Rosie. And as soon as you are healed, we’ll take you to Empress Matilda’s son, Prince Henry.” She smiled at the thought.

  “But if I cannot be cured—”

  “You will be,” said Mother, and I saw how tightly she clenched her faith, like a falcon grips its rail. She’d set her hopes on Henry. No matter that his mother, Empress Matilda, was deposed and King Stephen was in power. No matter that we Pendragons were exiles. No matter that I bore a devil’s mark.

  Mother led me to her wardrobe, opened the door, and stood behind me, facing us toward the long mirror, my gown pale violet, hers of gold.

  “Queen Rosalind Pendragon,” she said. “Know who you are.”

  I said naught. Firelight caught in the glass, burning around her gown and mine. She shut the door. We settled by the hearth to await the healer, the silence growing cold and colder between us as Mother worked her loom. She was weaving a large panel, which she hoped to finish by my fifteenth birthday. The tapestry was a portrait of me dressed in a rose-colored gown, seated on a golden throne with Queen Evaine’s scepter in my hand. Angels blessed me in the starry sky above, and below my feet, the words of Merlin’s prophecy. I blushed, looking at the cloth so rich in color and dream.

  “Where will you hang it?” I asked, hoping the answer would be her solar or mine.

  “I’ve not decided yet.”

  Veritas Dei, God’s truth, I didn’t want the tapestry on display in the Great Hall for every isl
and clodpole to drool over.

  Three things the stars say of this queen.

  She shall redeem the name Pendragon.

  End war with the wave of her hand.

  And restore the glory of Wilde Island.

  When I was younger my mother’s faith could buoy me. All seemed right in her eyes: My healing sure. My future strong. My life charmed by Merlin’s prediction. When had I lost the surety of her eyes?

  Another hour passed. Still the healer did not come. I begged Mother for a story. She quit her tapestry and told about the time she’d rescued her friend Aliss from the frozen marsh when she was a schoolgirl at Saint Brigid’s Abbey. They’d run away from the hated school, trying for Pendragon Castle in the midst of winter, but the snowstorm had won out. I knew the tale and liked it well.

  “She would have drowned if you hadn’t pulled her out,” I said.

  “No doubt,” said Mother with a half smile.

  “If I had a friend my age . . .” I sighed. “One like Aliss.”

  “You have friends enough.”

  “Who? Bram the pigboy? I have no friends at all now that Magda—”

  “Don’t, Rosie.”

  I turned my eyes to the vanity where Mother’s jeweled combs and perfumes were prettily displayed. We’d had this argument before. Mother would not allow me a friend my own age. “Because you are the princess,” she said, but I knew the real reason. Good friends kept confidences and shared secrets. I had one that could never be shared.

  At last a bedraggled messenger arrived with news from Sheriff William.

  “Your Highness, the healer you sent for was attacked on the road.”

  “By the dragon?” I said, coming to a stand.

  “No, Princess, only thieving footpads,” said the man, fingering his filthy hat. “They stole her horse and cloak and slit her throat besides. Only her servant boy lived to tell of it.”

  I fell back in my chair, sickness rising up my throat.

  “Her—her name,” I stuttered. “What was it?”

  “Princess,” said Mother (she always called me that in front of others), “the name is not important.”

  “Was she young or old?”

  “I said you don’t need to know.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Young or old?”

  “Young!” Mother turned her back on me to dismiss the messenger.

  The man cleared his throat. “The sheriff told me to give you her healing pouch, which the thieves had no use for.” He handed Mother a mud-encrusted bag.

  She waved him from the room.

  Locking her chamber door, Mother turned. “Why ask her name and age when the woman’s dead?”

  “She had a name and a life until she set out on the road to heal me,” I said guiltily.

  “You’re the princess. It was her duty.”

  “To die?”

  Mother ignored my question and searched the healer’s pouch. Frowning, she pulled out powdered wormwood, a wad of cinquefoil leaves, and a vial. “Your nursemaid could have gathered these selfsame herbs in the nearby woods.” She removed the cork from the vial and the smell of honeyed poppy filled the air. This being a favorite of hers, she corked it again and slipped it into her velvet bag.

  “This healer would have failed us just like all the rest.” She hurled the filthy pouch and paltry herbs into the fire.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dragonslayers

  AFTER MORNINGSONG the castle made ready to bless the knights before they sailed to Dragon’s Keep. One and twenty slayers were setting out to kill the dragon. During the ceremony Mother expected me to sit silently on the dais and inspire the knights with my beauty, but I had other plans.

  Marn slid her cold hand along my neck as she braided my hair. “You’ll charm the knights,” she said with pride. “See if you don’t.” Marn tugged my scalp harder and I winced. “Keep still,” she warned. I steadied myself before the vanity.

  “How your mother would have liked to have her hair this length when she was crowned. She cried that morning when I brushed it out, poor poppet, all shorn from her years of schooling at the abbey, but I was used to her tears by then.”

  I frowned. “Mother does not cry.” I’d seen her weep once in my life and that was on the night I’d tried to cut off my claw.

  “Aye, well, she’s a queen now. But she cried her share as a babe and she was all over tears the day her mother and father sent her away to school.”

  I watched my nursemaid’s reflection stooping in the mirror to choose the blue ribbon from my store. “Why did they send her away?”

  Marn twisted the ribbon about my plait. “Who can say? But her twin brother, Bion, was the one thought to become king and they doted on him. So little Gwen was in the way, you might say.”

  “In the way?”

  “She was stubborn, like you, and not an easy girl to manage.”

  “I’m not stubborn.”

  Marn laughed. It was nearly time to gather in the foreyard to send off Lord Broderick and his dragonslayers.

  “Have you called for the turnkey?”

  “Aye, though why you’d want to see him, I don’t know. There’s no time to—”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Ah, my little poppet.” Marn sighed. “You’re all grown now and don’t need your old nursemaid at all.”

  I reached up to touch Marn’s wrinkled cheek. She’d mothered me my whole life, and I thought to say I’d always love her. But she blushed at my touch.

  “Hold still now, Rosie,” she said. “I’ve got a flea.”

  Marn plucked my scalp and crushed the flea with her gnarled fingers. “A plump one,” she said. Straightening my ribbon, she stepped back. “Ah, my pretty girl. You’re ready for the knight’s blessing. I’ll just go tell the queen.”

  “First the turnkey,” I reminded. She gave me an unsettled look before she shut the door.

  Lord Broderick was the best of Father’s knights, and I had a mind to save him from the dragon. A plan had come to me by way of Mouser.

  The lackwit could never catch all the castle mice, though he made great noisy scenes, rushing up and down the halls with his soiled pouch shouting, “There’s one!” and “Stand away!” as he rammed into our astonished guests. Sick of this display, Sir Magnus had mixed poison for Mouser to use against the vermin. The mice ate it well enough. But so did my cat. Tilly had a fit and died.

  I didn’t blame Mouser for Tilly’s death. Everyone knew the boy had curds for brains. Sir Magnus never should have given him the poison.

  Remembering poor Tilly, I’d devised a plan. Seeing how our good knight’s arrows, those that struck the beast at all, had clattered against his scales like pebbles on a stone wall, I thought to poison the dragon. A plump murderer in the dungeon would do nicely. We’d feed him greasy bacon, stitch poison into the pockets of his cloak, then free the murderer in an open place and let the dragon sup.

  Our isle was teeming with footpads, having once been an English prison colony and a place where folk still came on occasion to serve out their time as bond slaves. Even Marn’s husband had come here years ago to pay out his debt.

  Many outlaws escaped custody once they reached Wilde Island, which enraged my father and mother and kept our sheriffs busy. I was sure to find a murderer in our dungeon.

  Marn entered with the turnkey and I waved her from the room.

  “List who we house in the dungeon just now,” I said. “And tell me of their crimes.”

  The turnkey pursed his lips and gazed at the ceiling as if the answer hung there. “Well, there’s Rob Thornby. He’s in for stealing Madreck’s sheep.”

  This was not crime enough for my plan. “Go on,” I said.

  “Then there’s Madreck. Held for brawling at the tavern and knocking out young Gifford for stealing his sheep.”

  “I thought Rob Thornby stole the sheep.”

  “Well, Madreck didn’t know that!”

  “Ah,” I said, confused. “Well, who else is there?”<
br />
  The turnkey crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “There’s old Plimpton. He’s been imprisoned years and years.”

  “For what crime?” I asked, hoping it was murder.

  “Well, that I don’t know, Princess.”

  “How is it you don’t know?”

  His eyes widened. He licked his thick lips. “Plimpton’s been there since I was a boy, before I ever was turnkey, Princess.”

  I dropped the inquiry. No doubt the man was thin and frail and would not tempt the dragon. I needed someone plump.

  “Who else?” I said.

  The man screwed up his brows. “Pardon?”

  “Who else is in the dungeon?”

  “That’s all, Princess.”

  “All?”

  “There’ll be more after today’s blessing,” he assured hastily. “Whenever the villagers carouse with the king’s good ale, Sheriff William brings the brawlers in.”

  I came to a stand. “What about the thieves who haunt the roads at night? What about the murderers who slit my healer’s throat?”

  He shrugged. “Well, they’re hard to catch, aren’t they?” he mused.

  Was there no one wicked enough to clothe in poison? I dismissed the man then took the stairs by twos. I was breathing hard when I reached the crow’s nest.

  Sir Magnus was hunched over a book of incantations. His hands rested on the table, where herbs were separated into piles.

  “Princess,” he said coolly and without looking up.

  “I have a job for you.”

  “Not now. I prepare for the knights’ blessing.”

  “It’s for that I’ve come. You do not have to go through with the blessing if you take my advice.”

  “And what is that?” He gazed up at last, the tufts sprouting from his brows like black wings.

  “Remember how you poisoned my cat?”

  “Princess, are you feeling well?”