Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  “You can do the same to the dragon.” I told him my cunning plan.

  When I was done, he said, “The beast would smell the poison.”

  “Not if we disguise it in bacon fat.”

  “Do you know how much poison it would take to kill a dragon?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t say.”

  “Too much.” He stepped into the adjoining alcove. I spun the astrolabe as I waited—his favored instrument for reading the stars, not that he read them well. At last Magnus returned, muttering to himself and gripping stems of flowering vervain. “Are you still here?”

  “So you refuse me?”

  “I have a ceremony to perform. Tell the queen to send me a sound boy to help with the herbs, and not the lackwit Mouser.”

  I swept my hand across his precious piles. Brown leaves and green drifted to the floor as I quit the crow’s nest.

  In the castle foreyard I sat atop the platform with Mother and Father and surveyed the roving crowd. The dragon’s attack must have brought them to the knights’ blessing. I’d not seen so many townsfolk gathered there since the night of the witch burning.

  Lord Broderick was down upon one knee.

  “Why must he be sent?” I said to Mother. We were on the dais, so none could hear my quiet plea. “He’s our best knight.”

  “He is,” whispered Mother. “Strong enough and wise enough to lead the others.”

  I viewed twenty men behind Lord Broderick. They knelt in two lines spanning outward in a V like geese in flight. Some slayers were pimple faced and slender, no more than boys in battle garb.

  Sir Magnus stepped up to Lord Broderick. A castle page stood at his side holding the silver tray. Waving an herb above Lord Broderick’s head, Magnus announced to all, “Wormwood!” then circled his hand about three times like a wheeling vulture. “With power to protect against the serpent’s bite.” He placed the wormwood in a leather bag. Leaning forward I could just make out the letter B embroidered on the pouch.

  Sir Magnus reached for the herb tray again. “Vervain!” he said, holding up the flowering spears. “Wear this and you will find the place where the Pendragon scepter is hid. None, not even a dragon, can keep a stolen thing away from this truth-telling herb!”

  He cupped the flowers tenderly and pressed them in Lord Broderick’s pouch.

  More herbs were given and prayers were said. Father Hugh anointed each slayer with holy oil.

  “Now,” announced Sir Magnus, lifting his broad hand, “you are ready to kill the beast. Go with God, Lord Broderick, slay the dragon, and with these men return to us with Queen Evaine’s scepter!”

  The people cheered. The dragonslayers crossed themselves. Lady Broderick swooned and was caught by her son, Niles. We stood and sang a holy hymn, then marched in chorus across the drawbridge. Lord Broderick and the slayers rode from the castle gates, their red and blue banners fluttering in the breeze.

  “All hail Lord Broderick!” shouted the village folk. “All hail the dragonslayers!” I felt a chill as villagers tossed lavender and wild roses before Lord Broderick’s horse.

  Slowly he passed before us, his armor glistening like a well-rubbed goblet. With his visor up, he gazed at Lady Broderick standing just beside me. What passed between the lady and her man was such a rush of feeling that I trembled from it. Here was the deep of love, and seeing this one glance, I knew the shallow waters I’d drunk from all my life.

  Trumpets blared. The people cheered, tossing their hats into the air with the merry glee of the Midsummer Fair. The simple folk had such faith in the slayers’ strength.

  It’s true they were the best of men, but my heart did not rise up. Wormwood, vervain, bows, spears, and sharpened swords: In years past I’d believed in such herb spells and weapons. But now I’d seen the beast with my own eyes. He was as a dark god to us, and our knights had little chance against him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pilgrimage

  THE SLAYERS DID NOT RETURN from Dragon’s Keep that autumn. Eating little and saying less, I grew thin as a shadow wraith. Cook tried to tempt me with puddings that I could not down. Sir Magnus blamed my morbidity on the stars.

  Father strove to train even stronger slayers. Shouts and loud clatterings came daily from the foreyard where Father trained new dragonslayers on the giant straw dragon Sir Magnus had fashioned. The great beast’s wooden rib cage, built like a ship’s frame, was filled with straw, covered in green sailcloth, and bound in many ropes under Magnus’s supervision. Soundly built for persecution, the beast was hung from a high windlass, his sailcloth wings outstretched as if in flight.

  Leaning against the mews, I watched the dragonslayers battle the straw beast till they were hoarse from shouting and their hair was wet with sweat. At last Magnus would call, “Halt!” The injured dragon was lowered to the ground while weary slayers joined Father to guzzle beer and stuff themselves with sausages.

  I waited in the shadows savoring this moment, for Sir Magnus would fairly weep as he inspected his dear dragon. Then he’d begin shouting at the builders, “Fix him and be quick about it!”

  The real dragon haunted my head and heart. More than once in those dark days I flew into a rage. One week I broke Mother’s vase, the next Cook’s platter (this after she’d sent me stuffed eel to cure my morbid liver).

  Marn came to bind the spirits. In my solar she waved her wrinkled hands round and round, wrapping me in invisible cords and whispering, “Three times winding, four times binding. I bind all evil spirits now and cast them from this room.”

  Giving me the kiss of peace, she said, “Ah, aren’t you better now, poppet?”

  I wasn’t.

  Picking up the broken platter and eel innards, she left. At last even Marn stopped trying to cure my tempers and spent her time with Sir Allweyn in the mews.

  Wandering the castle halls at night with a candle, my shadow roved black across the walls. By day I rode Rollo or walked the grassy hills. One afternoon I fell into a fitful sleep in the graveyard, leaning against Magda’s headstone.

  I dreamed.

  I was a bird, or some kind of flying beast. Blue winged and golden breasted. I soared over Wilde Island to a shining lake. Wheeling down, all my talons went chill as I skimmed along the deep blue surface of the water. In the midst of the lake I saw a girl rising up and shining, as a flame rises from a candle.

  Magda. The child fell back into the water, and I dived in after her. Down and down, then pulled her to the surface again. I stepped from the lake, thinking I still held her, but she was gone. Turning, I called, “Come out of the water!” and she to me, laughing, called, “I can’t come out. I’m dead.” I shivered and saw I was no longer a bird but myself again.

  Naked on the shore, I lifted my arms to the wind, for though I was cold, I wanted the breeze across my skin. I spread my fingers wide. And oh! My hands were bare as well and my left hand as beautiful and whole as my right. I screamed with joy and woke myself.

  That night I called Father Hugh to my solar. I told the man my dream, though I did not speak of Magda, nor that my claw was healed, only that I’d felt some healing from the water.

  “Healing waters,” he said with a nod. “It’s said Saint Columba once dwelled in a cave near a lake on the far side of Morgesh Mountain before he returned to Scotland. In those days pilgrims came to the hermit’s lake for healing. Columba’s Tear, the lake was called. And many found remedy there when the water was a-stir.”

  I leaned forward. I’d read of Columba’s Tear in Queen Evaine’s Annals. She’d taken her child there, or was it her grandchild? “And do the sick still venture to the lake?”

  “I’ve heard of no healing there since the days of Saint Columba . . . Five hundred years ago? Or is it six?” He scratched his balding head.

  I would not be turned away by a thing so small as time. “Once a place is sacred,” I said, “is it not always so? Would God remove his grace once given?”

  “Oh, Princess,” he said, his brows tilting. “Not like
ly.” He frowned then, thinking. “But if there were once roads to that rough place across the mountain, there are none now. And no holy hermit there to greet a traveler once he comes. It would be a two-week journey at least, and that on a healthy horse and in the milder months of summer.”

  Later when Mother came I told her of the lake. “A pilgrimage?” She crossed her arms.

  “This lake, Columba’s Tear, is just over the mountain. It’s a place of holy healing. My dream told me so.”

  “Would we follow a dream?” mused Mother.

  I grew hot. “Your healers never cured me, I’ve chewed my fill of horehound and pressed one too many dead men’s teeth against my skull! So if a dream showed me—”

  “A journey up mountain.” Mother nodded and gave a sad smile. “It is time.”

  My heart leaped, but Mother seemed troubled. She touched her saint’s pouch. “We should present you to Prince Henry before high summer. And I have it on my heart that you will go ungloved.”

  “Ungloved,” I whispered. “I’ll cross the sea and feel the wind blow through my fingers.”

  Mother smiled at that.

  Mother told the king we were going to Saint Brigid’s Abbey for a time of prayer and fasting. The nuns there were cloistered from the world. And so no one, not even Father, knew where we were going. Another lie to protect my claw, but I counted it a small sin. Thus, late in the afternoon on Saint Bertilla’s feast day, I slipped Father Hugh’s map into Rollo’s saddlebag and Mother mounted Aster. To begin our pilgrimage a-right, I scattered lavender as we rode across the drawbridge.

  We chose the woodland path through the valley that lay below Morgesh Mountain like a great green skirt. That Mother had changed her mind, and so quickly, puzzled me. She was not one for mountain rides. And never rode without full escort. Was it the strength of my dream that swayed her? Another thing. What had she meant by “It is time”? Her voice, usually clear, was husky when she said that. And I heard old tears unwept behind her words.

  These darker thoughts soon vanished. I let the wind sing in my ears and heard a chorus of toads croaking in a nearby stream. Mother turned onto a path that chased up Morgesh Mountain. As night came on, the pine boughs stirred as if to sweep stars from the sky.

  At last we came upon a dim-lit cave and tied our mounts to the saplings. Rollo hoofed the ground then chewed the stubbled grass contentedly. “Good boy,” I whispered in his ear.

  The cave was welcome enough, for I was tired and cold. There was no door, only a boulder betwixt cave and path, and I could see the crackling fire painting the entry walls pale gold. Mother slipped inside. I marveled at her daring then entered myself.

  I should have known by the sudden smell of rotting meat, there were no kind folk here. An old woman wrapped in a muddy shawl was crouched over a table, her back to the door. She turned as I came in and placed her hand near the pile of leaves and scattered bones.

  “Come closer,” she said, pointing to the fire.

  I gripped my cloak. “Why stop here?” I asked Mother.

  “Hush,” she said. “Meet Demetra.”

  I stayed in my place near the entrance.

  “So this is she,” said Demetra, standing up and peering at me with her moon-struck eye. The milky whiteness of it sent a chill to the back of my neck.

  “She’s a tidy beauty,” said Demetra. “If a little frail.”

  I felt as if she were eyeing me for the cook pot. “I’m fourteen,” I said. “And strong.”

  “I know your years.” Demetra gave a gap-toothed smile. “For don’t I know her starting spark to the day?”

  “What does she mean by that, Mother?”

  The queen adjusted her skirts as if seeking an answer in the folds. “Rosalind,” she said hoarsely. “I would not have come here if there were any other way—”

  “Aye.” Demetra clucked. “You’ve taken your time about it.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, tugging Mother’s arm. She seemed fixed to the floor as if her feet were hexed. “We should ride farther tonight,” I pleaded. Still no movement from Mother. “We have a long way to go.”

  “I’d say you’ve arrived all right.” Demetra laughed and waved her hand at two birch stools near the fire.

  Mother sat obediently.

  “You’ve hexed her, you witch!”

  “Rosalind,” commanded Mother. “She’s done nothing to me. I came here on my own power. Sit down now, daughter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Demetra clapped her hands and a serving woman came from one of the tunnels at the back of the cave. Her clothes were ragged, her golden hair pulled back into a braid. Mother started when she saw her, but the woman did not notice, for she kept her eyes on the floor.

  “Fetch tea,” Demetra said.

  The servant fled down the tunnel and returned with a tray of steaming mugs. I watched her pass Mother a cup. Her hands were red and the tips of her slender fingers cracked. Beautiful hands once, I could see, but they had been hard worked. She gazed up at Mother, her brown eyes pleading, Mother’s going soft, then hard in turns. It was clear from that one look they knew each other.

  All seemed inside out. The black night a place of safety, this warm cave full of danger.

  “Serve the princess, Ali,” ordered Demetra. Ali handed me a tea that was sweet to sip but bitter going down. Then she refilled Demetra’s cup, and flitted back down another tunnel.

  “You took long enough to bring her,” said Demetra.

  “We left only today,” I said.

  Demetra snorted.

  “I had some hope the village healers . . .” Mother took a sip of tea. “I knew she must be ready to take your cure. I’m sure she’s strong enough to face it now and live.”

  Strong enough for what? “Mother,” I said through gritted teeth, “we have our pilgrimage to make.”

  Demetra peered at me, like one about to gut a fish. She poked the fire, sending sparks from the burningstone. “Who says there’s a cure for her?”

  “There must be,” said Mother.

  My gloved hands felt cold around the steaming mug. And the tea quaked below the rim.

  “Some things are sealed in their making,” said Demetra.

  Mother stood up to her full height. “Not this,” said Mother, her voice low and ominous. “The girl is innocent. Did you think I would have drunk the slime from that giant egg if I’d known what lay within?”

  Giant egg? I’d never heard of this. The cave walls begin to swim. “Saint Monica healed Mother’s womb,” I said through chattering teeth.

  Demetra laughed. “So that’s what you told the girl, eh? Well, saints or slimy potions, you said you’d do anything to conceive.”

  “But the egg—”

  “You sought a child and won one.”

  Mother grabbed my upper arm and pulled me closer to the hag. “Look at her, Demetra,” said Mother, her words coming out in gulps like one drowning. “She’s a beauty, well schooled, pure, and sweet.” Mother tightened her grip. “She’ll be the twenty-first queen.” I saw by the lift of Demetra’s brow that she heard Mother’s uncertainty.

  I struggled to pull away, but Mother had both arms about my waist and held me before her as if I were her puppet. Demetra reached out and ran her gnarled fingers through my hair. “I know Merlin’s prophecy,” she said. “But the time may not be ripe with England in civil war—”

  “Merlin saw her ending war.”

  I strained against Mother’s grip, the three of us so close I could smell Demetra’s fetid breath. At last I pulled free and the two faced each other.

  Demetra licked her lips. “Wizard words,” she snapped. “I don’t see his vision playing out with the girl’s witch mark.”

  Witch mark? She knew? I had to leave now! But I couldn’t move.

  Mother swayed. “How do you know what ails the child?”

  “I knew there would be some mark on her from the cure you took. Could it be . . . hiding on her hand?” She tipped her head a
nd smiled.

  Slowly I backed toward the entrance, but before I could escape, Demetra’s moonstruck eye caught me in a milky stare. I would run when she looked down.

  “Mayhap,” mused the hag, “you should try for another girl. A perfect one without a mark to threaten her power.”

  I stepped back once and twice, as if walking through thick snow.

  “No!” shouted Mother. “Rosalind’s the one. The only hope we have. There’s but one thing in the way, and we’ve come to be rid of it by God’s power or by potion!”

  “Well, not by God’s power here.” Demetra laughed. “But a potion, sure. That or a good sharp knife.” Saying this, she unsheathed her blade.

  I screamed and raced outside.

  A rush of hot wind hit my face as I flung myself forward. Heart beating, blood rushing, feet pounding, I ran into the night not caring where.

  “Stop, Rosalind!” called Mother.

  Feet flying over root and stone, I rushed down the winding path, with Mother and Demetra in pursuit.

  “Come back!” called Mother. “You’ll catch your death!” But I thought that death was not chasing me as hotly as those two.

  I took a sharp turn, nearly falling as I ran. Fearing that they’d catch me on the path, I dove behind a blackberry bush and watched them rush by, Mother’s cloak shining in the moon and Demetra’s gray hair flying out behind her like moss caught in a river.

  Twigs scratched my cheeks and arms as I crawled deeper into the underbrush. The smell of sage filled my nose, mingled with the dust my hands and knees stirred up.

  “Find her,” called Demetra from farther down the path. “She’s a tender girl and there’s a hot north wind a-blow tonight from Dragon’s Keep.”

  Hot north wind, a dragon sign. I was afraid then. Still I did not call out to Mother, for in her wake ran Demetra, and in her hand I’d seen the knife.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Kiss

  DEEP IN THE NIGHT a noise awakened me. “Mother?” I whispered, though I knew she was back in Demetra’s cave by now. A beating sound, coming from the starry sky. I sat up, gripped the stunted tree, and listened. There it was: a strong dull sound like that of Marn thumping a rug with a stick. Then darkness sped between me and the moon.