The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  If there was a child … she might have borne it after her husband left and had no means of going for help. Bad, he thought. Very bad.

  He opened the smokehouse door. It was almost empty. Damn! What kind of man was her husband to leave his wife without food or fuel? And pregnant in the bargain.

  It was none of his business, and he had problems of his own. But another possibility occurred to him. Perhaps the man was in the house, lying ill or injured.

  He told himself sternly that it was none of his business … but … well, he could kill a pig. A spear was leaning against the wall just outside the smokehouse.

  He closed the smokehouse door and hefted it. It had a brutal, wide, razor-sharp blade, and a crosspiece just below the blade. Its maker had equipped it with a stout handle that could be used to hold the pig back in case the spear missed a vital organ and the animal lived for some while until it bled to death. Pigs were most dangerous then. When suffering mortal wounds, they turned on their attackers.

  He left the spear where it was and walked up to the house. As before, he spoke to the wall. “My lady, I cannot know what your trouble is. But if food would be a help to you, before I go I can kill a pig and you can fill your smokehouse.”

  This time he got a reply. It took so long that he was about to turn and walk away when she spoke.

  “Yes … I would like that. I need food … meat … badly. The garden helps now, but …”

  “Say no more,” he said. “I understand.” He didn’t, but he said he did, afraid she might shame herself by breaking down. “I will return with the pig.”

  He relieved himself in the shadows by the compost pit, then washed in the river. He stood on the bank holding the spear and considered.

  Beyond the water meadow, the forest stretched down to the river. The sun was up and the morning chill was beginning to depart, but mist still drifted in the shallows on both banks. He rolled up both sleeves of his heavy linen shirt and dusted his hands in the fine, dry dirt above the water. Along the river’s edge ran a trail, a very faint track, and he suspected it led to pig wallows near the water.

  The first was empty. But he saw traces, troubled reeds and cattails where the pigs had been feeding. The second held a sow and a half-dozen piglets. He had no desire to tackle her. Suckling pig was a delicacy among his people, but he had no mind to sacrifice a productive sow—correction, the farmer’s productive sow—for a brief feast, however juicy.

  The third held another sow, no piglets. She lay in the wallow, blowing bubbles contentedly.

  He slowed his pace. Yes, he thought. They will be somewhere close by.

  He heard the crashing in the bushes before he saw it coming. Then a second later, it came, moving right toward him, charging him, head down, tusks bared, foam at the open jaws. At the last instant, he sidestepped and drove the spear into the left flank, just behind the left foreleg.

  The hit was perfect. The boar spear entered the animal’s body without scraping anything as it would have if it struck a rib.

  The boar crashed into the ground and slid for a few feet, dragging him along with it, already dead almost before its legs folded. He pulled the spear out and allowed the boar to bleed for a time, while he slit the throat, using the spear. Then he lifted the hindquarters to drain the body of blood.

  He hated that. Wasting the blood. It made wonderful sausage. But no help for it. In the normal course of events, he and his men would have caught it in a net, stunned the animal with a wooden hammer, then strung it up and slit the throat. But here he was alone and must do the best he could.

  When he was relatively sure the boar was bled out, he slung the carcass over his shoulder, picked up the spear, and started back to the house. He sighed, knowing the real work was only beginning.

  When he returned, she was ready, one fire blazing in a pit in the courtyard, another under a kettle. A coil of rope and a long knife rested on the stump near the log. And, yes, there was a tree close by. Another tree section stood in the center by the courtyard. It would be suitable for a chopping block.

  She held another knife in her hand. It was about fourteen inches long.

  “I lost the blood,” he said, dumping the pig carcass under the tree.

  “Can’t be helped, but I wasn’t hoping for it,” she said. “We must do the best we can.”

  “Just so,” he answered, slinging the pig by the heels from the lowest branch of the tree.

  “May I know your name?” she asked.

  “Arthur,” he said.

  “Dea Arto?” she asked.

  “Yes,” was the laconic answer.

  “Are you a bear?”

  He looked away from the pig he was beginning to butcher. “Yes.” He set down the knife, lifted his shirt, and showed her.

  She relaxed. “How did you die?” she asked.

  The question hung in the air between them.

  “I didn’t,” he answered, “but was sent here alive.”

  “You can’t do that,” she told him.

  “But I did,” he answered. “Or rather, it was done to me. Now, shall we get on with this? How did you get here?”

  She looked away at the river in the distance, not wanting to stare at his face. She held the knife blade between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand; the fingers of her right opened and closed on the hilt.

  “I was little, not more than seven or eight, running wild with the children of our village near the Severn River. A man came. He was handsome and beautifully dressed. He and a half-dozen others rounded us up like sheep, then they drove in a dozen or more from the village.

  “A few he discarded—the ones who were crippled or slow. But then he took the rest of us. My memory of the next few days is cloudy, but when I really woke, I was here.”

  Was he dead? he wondered. No, he had gone back and spoken with Igrane and Merlin. They had tried to torture him. He didn’t think she was dead, either, but for some reason, she believed she was.

  “May I know your name?” he asked in return.

  “Eline,” she said. “That’s all I remember. My father called me that—little fawn.”

  Arthur nodded. “So you have heard of the Bears.”

  “Heard,” she said, “but never met one. So I do not know if what is said of them is true.”

  “It probably is,” Arthur told her.

  Then they both worked. And there was a lot to be done. He butchered; she chopped and stuffed.

  Such a good thing as a whole pig could not be wasted. The hams would be rubbed with salt and placed in the smokehouse. A lot of meat must be cooked and then made into one type of sausage or another. Some uncooked portions would be made into other types of sausage. Large cuts would be salted down for later use to flavor beans and stews. By the by, it would provide a fine meat meal for the two of them.

  Arthur cleared the fire pit and laid fresh sage branches. The rocks inside were almost red hot; the odor of sage filled the air. Then they both placed the meat on the sage, covered it with more sage, and then threw a hide over it to keep in the heat.

  She toiled over the kettle and the chopping block. He cut more wood for the fire and washed the pig’s intestines in a bucket, readying them to be used as sausage casings.

  It was midmorning when the baby began to cry. She looked up from her task of seasoning and chopping meat and fat. He paused his butchering; he had been rubbing salt into the hams.

  “I must feed him,” she said. “You should go into the springhouse and drink some milk, since you had no breakfast. I have some cooling in the water there.”

  He nodded.

  The curved house was much the same shape as a quarter moon, and they were working in the courtyard caught within the crescent. One horn was the springhouse.

  The dog was chained before the door. When she spoke, his head lifted and he stared at her in mute adoration.

  She took a deep breath. “I have always heard that Bears are men of honor,” she said.

  “We are,” he answered.


  “Bax!” she said, addressing the dog.

  He rose to his feet and was even bigger than Arthur had supposed. He was black, with brown-gold markings and the massive frame and big jaws of a fighting animal.

  “Bax,” she said. “Greet my friend Arthur.”

  Arthur walked toward the animal, paused in front of him, and offered a hand. The big yellow eyes studied him, and Bax sniffed the outstretched hand. Then the dog stood and placed his front paws on Arthur’s shoulders. He was half a head taller than the man. Solemnly, he licked his face.

  “Thank you, Bax,” Arthur said as the dog went back down on all fours and sat quietly.

  “I was one of the dog handlers at King Bade’s villa,” she said. “Bax is the reason we got away. He helped us.”

  “What is King Bade like?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I never saw him.”

  Arthur bowed as he passed the dog, Bax. Bax acknowledged him with a low grunt. It wasn’t quite a growl and didn’t sound unfriendly.

  The springhouse was cool and dim. There was a spring, only a trickle dripping from a pipe in a rock wall. It filled a basin. In the basin were a crock of milk, butter, and a jug of wine. The milk cow was tethered to a wall on the other end of the cool room.

  Wine, he thought, lifting his eyebrows. An expensive treat for small farmers. He didn’t think further about it, but drank the rich milk he dipped from the jar.

  He tried to remember what Morgana told him about the summer country. Very little, only that they had a sort of treaty with King Bade. A treaty pretty much honored when the king felt like it. But most often, the king did as he pleased. He could be very dangerous.

  Merlin had a lot of friends, Arthur reflected. Some of them powerful. Yes, it was true he had escaped one trap only to wander into another. He shook his head, washed his face quickly in the cold water, and sternly ordered himself to tend to business. Now!

  Whatever happened to him, he intended to leave her with enough meat to survive for a time. She was not yet completely healed. The birth must have been a difficult one.

  He returned to the courtyard and continued salting the hams. Then he carried them to the smokehouse. There, the fire must be relaid and more wood cut, so that she could keep it going for the time necessary to cure the meat.

  When he returned, bread and butter were waiting for him on the stump. Then they both settled down to the task of rendering the lard.

  When they were finished, they had a meat feast. Arthur was surprised at his own greed. But then, it was true he hadn’t had many full meals in the last few weeks, and she must have suffered considerable blood loss birthing the baby.

  They both ate and ate of the tender, sage-fragrant ribs and loin until they could hold no more. Bax got his share, a plate piled high with bones and trimmings. Then they lazed in the afternoon sun.

  “In the morning,” Arthur said, “I will leave. First, I’ll chop more wood, but then I’ll go. Is there any place nearby where I would be accepted into the household for the work I can contribute?”

  “You’re a good worker,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him but studied the stones of the courtyard at her feet. “But I don’t know.”

  He saw she was unable or unwilling to say more, so he rose, went down to the river, bathed, and went back to the barn. He lay down in the loft and immediately fell asleep.

  The voices woke him at sunset. “Make us a bed now, dearie.”

  She was standing with three men below the loft where he had been sleeping. The barn was only a lean-to, and there was more than enough light in the gathering dusk to see all three of them.

  She was weeping. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “The wine is the only thing of value we have. Take it and go. I was badly torn when the child came.… I’m no good to you.”

  The one Arthur picked out as leader patted her cheek almost gently, then backhanded her a savage swipe across the face. She didn’t scream but went backward into the straw, nose and mouth running blood.

  “Sweet tits, you promised to be nice to us when we came on you in the vegetable garden. Now turn over and pile the straw into a nice bed.” He was a big, dark, powerful man, with a sharp widow’s peak in the center of his forehead.

  She rolled over, wiped her face with her skirt, and began to obey. The leader looked like he might be dangerous; the other two Arthur discounted as not much. One had a knife and a mace with a stone head. The other had only a knife and a quilted overshirt. The dark man wore chain mail and had a dirk and a sword.

  The leader carried the wine jug. The one with the mace tapped it with a cup he held in his hand. “Give me some more.”

  The leader poured some of the wine into the cup, then took a long pull on the jug. Quilted Jerkin snarled, “You’re getting two times as much as the rest of us.”

  “No, I’m not!” Hairy and Dark slammed an elbow into his ribs.

  The quilted one didn’t give up appreciable ground. But he didn’t retaliate, either.

  “There is plenty here for all of us.” Then he reached down and jerked the woman to her feet. “There’s plenty here for all of us, too,” he said as he shook her. “Now, dearie, it’s time to drop your skirt or raise it, whichever you prefer. Now, both of you get her arms and hold her while I—”

  “I want some wine. I’m sick of your hogging all the best things for yourself. Then we draw lots to see who gets to try her out first,” Quilted Jerkin spat.

  The dark one reached for his sword.

  Arthur acted.

  He jumped from the loft to the floor behind them, landing lightly on his feet. The dark one spun around, hand still on his sword hilt.

  Arthur didn’t bother with the sword. He jerked the short knife in his opponent’s belt free of its sheath. Armored men were fools, he reflected as he drove the dirk up through the man’s lower jaw, the base of the tongue. He felt the resistance, then snapping as the blade passed the thin bone that protects the brain from below. Then the mushy feel as at least two inches of blade entered the brain itself.

  The dark one didn’t die at once; he had at least thirty seconds to contemplate his fate. But he couldn’t do much, since the final two inches of steel destroyed his neural sight center. He couldn’t even really scream, since his tongue was cut off at the root. He made some noises, but Arthur didn’t pay any attention. He was still busy.

  The one with the mace tried to swing it. Arthur got him by the hair and pulled his head down to meet the top of his rising knee. His nose pulped and the septum was driven back and up into the frontal lobe of his brain. To be sure this was sufficient, Arthur popped both eyes out of their sockets with his thumbs.

  The one in the quilted jerkin tried to run. The dark one was down, dying, his body convulsing in a bow as it stood on its neck and heels. Arthur snatched the sword from its sheath and drove it through Quilted Jerkin’s back, savaging one lung, slicing both the abdominal aorta and the interior vena cava in half. He was dead of massive blood loss before he hit the floor.

  “Are there any more?” Arthur asked.

  She shook her head. Then she pointed at the dark one. “He’s still alive.”

  Arthur glanced at him, then back at her. Something flickered in his eyes that frightened her more than anything she had ever seen, even the three he had just dealt with. Then it vanished, to be replaced with indifference.

  “Not for long,” he said.

  “Take care of the baby,” she whispered.

  “Did they harm you?” he asked.

  “No, but the wine was a trap. To get them to drink it, I had to taste some. I pretended to try to bribe them with it. I hoped they would finish it before they started on me. I hoped I would be safe in the house when they came in the first place. But they caught me in the garden. The wine is poisoned. I didn’t tell them, and even drank some. I was hoping even if I died, they would die, too.”

  She bit him when he stuck his fingers down her throat to make her vomit. In the next few hours, she
found he could be as remorseless with her as he had been with her attackers. But to a completely different end.

  He ignored the bite and forced her to vomit until her stomach was empty. Then he ordered her to tell him what the poison was.

  “Opium!”

  He was relieved. Opium was a well-known drug. The Egyptian pharaohs had taken it to help them sleep, and the spectacular deterioration of a few of the more unpleasant Roman emperors was, by some, laid at its door. He understood how it did its deadly work, and for the next eight hours, he wouldn’t let her sleep. And he absolutely, positively, would not let her die.

  The next morning, he assisted her in wrapping a breast binder around her body to squeeze out the milk contaminated by the opium. Then he milked the cows and fed the baby the milk a spoon at a time, until he was satisfied and no longer squalling.

  At this inconvenient time, her husband arrived home.

  The house was neat and tidy. Arthur was sitting at the table, feeding the baby a puree of mashed carrots, turnips, and milk. He knew enough not to include onions; they give infants gas.

  Bax, who never left her side for long, was sitting near the door. She stepped back from the central hearth, seized the dog by the collar, and stepped between Arthur and her husband, standing in the doorway. His sword was half out of its sheath.

  “Before you make the worst mistake of your life,” she said, “go look in the barn.”

  “Think that will convince him?” Arthur asked.

  “It had better,” she said. She spoke a word softly to the dog. Bax walked over and sat in front of Arthur.

  The man was in the barn for some time. When he returned, he sat down at the table across from Arthur. He was no longer wearing the sword or the makeshift boiled leather armor.

  “You lost?” she said, placing a plate before her husband.

  “Yes,” he said. “We tried, but we failed.”

  “What else?” she said. “I told you—”

  The man’s fist slammed down hard on the table. “Christ and the devil both, Eline—”

  “Stop it!” Arthur’s voice cracked with the unmistakable ring of command. “Eline, let the man eat. You, whatever your name is, your wife is a woman of honor. You need not suspect her of any impropriety.”