The Princess of Cortova

by Diane Stanley

  Tobias, however, had none of these skills. So the others—most especially the highborn knights—wondered why on earth he’d been included. The lad was nothing but a cooper’s son. And as recently as the previous year he’d worked in the king’s stables, mucking out stalls, rubbing down horses, and scraping mud off gentlemen’s boots.

  And the knights remembered it too. Tobias stood out from the other lads because he was so very tall, with those broad shoulders and that shock of straw-colored hair. Indeed, he was overall such a remarkable specimen of manly grace that the wags among them had taken to calling him “the young Goliath,” as in “Send for the young Goliath to unload that wagon.”

  Then just last year the king had rewarded him—for some service or other, they didn’t know what—by giving him a title by royal decree and a landed estate to go with it. But that was nothing but perfume on a pig. “Lord Worthington” was still just a stable boy, not even trained to be a common foot soldier. So why the king should insist on bringing the fellow to Cortova was beyond their imagining.

  As it happened, he had a very good reason, and it was as follows:

  Alaric had to bring Molly. He depended on her special powers to guide him and warn him of danger. They would often be seen together, and there was really no way of hiding their mutual regard. This presented a problem. Since Molly was pretty, young, and unmarried, Alaric was afraid that King Gonzalo might misconstrue their relationship—and that would not be at all helpful in winning the princess’s hand. Molly must seem to be attached to somebody else.

  With this in mind, Alaric had called Tobias back to court with no explanation, just the request that he bring his friend Lord Richard. Immediately upon their arrival they’d been ushered into the king’s reception chamber, where Molly was already waiting, along with Winifred, her old chum from their days in service. Alaric had then dismissed his servants, even his guards, ordering them to wait outside.

  “Forgive me, Tobias,” he’d said, “but before the priest arrives, I must explain that we’ve created a little deception here.”

  The priest? What priest? Tobias had looked questioningly at Molly, but she was staring down at her shoes.

  “He will bless our journey, and pray for a good outcome, and so forth.”

  Ah. But then why were he and Richard there? And Winifred?

  “However, the court shall believe—and the priest will not say otherwise—that he was called for another purpose: to hear”—he’d taken a deep breath—“your vows of betrothal.”

  Tobias gasped. Molly cleared her throat. Neither had looked the other in the eye.

  “If anyone asks, you will say that the wedding is set for a year from now, when Molly comes of age. I have rings for both of you to wear. Once the journey is over, of course, you can take them off again, and we’ll spread the word that the betrothal was broken by mutual consent. We’ll think up some good reason why.”

  Before Tobias could say a word—his mouth was already open—the king had held up a hand to stop him. “It had to be you, Tobias. No one else would be believed, and it’s doubtful that anyone would even have been willing—”

  Molly had shot the king a very hard look, and he’d left the rest unsaid.

  “Are you?” Alaric asked. “Willing?”

  Tobias was more than willing. Indeed, he’d have been glad to do the thing in earnest. But he said, “Your Grace, may I know the reason?”

  “Of course. Your supposed betrothal to Molly will make it possible for her to travel with us, and often be seen at my side, without any suspicions that we are . . . in any way . . .”

  “I understand. Yes, Your Highness, I will be glad to do whatever is needed.”

  “Thank you. Winifred and Richard, please make the point of mentioning that you witnessed the ceremony. Don’t be too obvious about it, but spread the word. And Tobias, this means, of course, that you will have to come with us to Cortova. So I’ll need you to stay on at court for your preparation. You’ll be tutored in the language, as we all will; and I’ve asked the master of arms to take you under his wing—teach you a few basics of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat.”

  By this point Tobias had more or less lost the power of speech. So he’d simply nodded assent. Then, as everyone was now in agreement, the king went over to a table and opened a coffer such as jewelry is kept in. Inside were two small leather bags.

  “I wasn’t sure about the sizes,” he’d explained, “so I had several rings made for each of you. One of them is bound to fit.”

  Rings, Tobias had thought. Of course.

  The king had turned first to Molly, emptying the bag into his palm, then taking her left hand in his, studying it, selecting the right-sized ring, and slipping it onto her finger. Tobias couldn’t have said why this bothered him so much, but the king certainly hadn’t needed to do it that way—as if . . . well, as if he were being betrothed to her himself.

  Then Alaric had handed Tobias the other bag, letting him choose his own ring, whichever fit best; and shortly thereafter the priest had arrived to ask God’s blessing on the journey.

  Thus it was that Tobias and Molly had become a couple in the eyes of the world.

  Yet nothing between them had really changed. They continued to work together to do the king’s bidding, to keep him safe, and to help him accomplish what he must for the good of Westria. They spoke to each other in couples’ code, as old friends do, and anticipated each other’s needs and thoughts. They rode side by side in companionable silence when there was nothing to say, and they laughed at jokes that no one else understood. They watched ravens circling overhead with special meaning. And they left important things unsaid because that’s how Molly liked it, and it was how they’d always been with each other.

  And yet, somehow, every time Tobias removed his gloves, or reached for a slice of bread, or washed his hands, it thrilled him to see that ring on his finger—though it meant nothing, of course. He knew that. It was just a very expensive prop in a little play they were acting out.

  And yet . . .

  Part Two

  Development—the moving of pieces to new positions where their mobility and activity are increased.

  Trap—a plan for tricking your opponent into making a losing move.

  Day Two

  8

  It Gives Me the Shivers

  THE GUEST COMPOUND OF the summer palace looked like an ancient village, with many freestanding houses, all in the antique style. Every guest villa had four to six sleeping chambers, a dining porch, a sitting room, a service pantry, a water-cleaned privy that didn’t stink, a bathing room with a large pool fed by natural hot springs, and its own staff of slaves to see to the guests’ every need. The bedrooms were handsomely furnished, each with a large bowl of flowers on the table, a platter of fruit, and a jug of wine. And since all of them opened onto a private central garden, they were wonderfully airy and bright.

  King Alaric’s villa was larger and more luxurious than the rest—though it was just as unremarkable from the outside, with its red-tile roof, white-plaster walls, and very little else besides a row of high, barred windows and the single entry door where Molly now stood, hesitating.

  There was no telling who would answer her knock, though it would probably be Heptor Brochton. He was the senior knight on this journey, and his chief duty was to see to Alaric’s safety. He seemed to think this included keeping the wrong sort of people—that is to say, Molly—as far away from the king as possible.

  Lord Brochton was of royal lineage, his grandfather having been the younger brother of old King Mortimer, making him a distant cousin of the king. He was naturally proud of this connection. But due to a cascading string of misfortunes, Heptor had been born the second son of the second son of a second son. And so, because of the law of primogeniture (which required that all lands and titles go to the eldest son so as not to break up great estates by dividing them with each subsequent generation), Heptor had inherited nothing at all but sharp wits, abundant courage, a
nd a strong right arm. These he’d used to such advantage in the reign of King Godfrey the Lame that Heptor had won for himself the lands and fortune he’d been denied at birth. He was now so highly respected that only King Alaric and Lord Mayhew stood above him. Lord Brochton was rightfully proud of this as well.

  But like many a self-made man, he was a terrible snob; and he had taken a particular dislike to Molly. He thought it unseemly that the king of Westria should allow such a common, ignorant girl into his circle of friends; and he did all he could to keep them apart.

  Molly was quite aware of this, of course—Lord Brochton made no effort (except when the king was around) to hide his disdain—and it made her uncomfortable. So now as she knocked on the door to Alaric’s villa, she found herself hoping against hope that somehow, for some reason, Lord Brochton would be busy elsewhere and some other, kinder person would answer the door.

  She heard the clump of boots growing louder as someone approached, and she cursed herself for a weakling as her heart slammed hard against her ribs. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought; what was the worst the man could do to her? Sneer? Curl his lip?

  The door opened.

  “Yes?” Lord Brochton said.

  “I wish to have a word with the king,” she said.

  “I’m afraid he’s occupied.”

  “Then I’ll wait. You might want to tell him I’m waiting, though.”

  This was a threat and not such a subtle one that Heptor couldn’t grasp it. Alaric had made it abundantly clear that Molly was his trusted friend and very important to their mission. To send her away, or keep her waiting needlessly, or in any way treat her with contempt would make the king very angry.

  “Of course,” he said, still blocking the door and giving her a cold-eyed stare. “You can wait in the sitting room. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Then reluctantly he moved aside. She slid past him with all the dignity she could muster.

  When Alaric, having been informed of her presence, came directly out into the atrium—with his doublet off and his shirt hanging loose (he’d been undressing)—Molly noticed with some satisfaction how deeply this wounded the knight. When the king then invited her into his chamber rather than meet with her in a public space, Heptor had to turn his head away to hide his disgust.

  Alaric sent his servants out, then scooped up the various articles of clothing that were lying on one of the chairs and tossed them onto the bed.

  “Sit,” he said, pulling over a second chair and setting it down beside hers. “I was hoping you’d come.”

  “There’s a lot—”

  “Yes, there is. Tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “It gives me the shivers.”

  “It gives me the shivers, too. I’d heard Gonzalo was a bit eccentric—wearing togas and all that. But I never expected a buffoon. Everything he said and did was peculiar, not at all appropriate or according to custom. And I rather think it was intentional. Did you notice how much he seemed to enjoy our discomfort? He was like some nasty little boy tearing wings off flies.”

  Molly didn’t speak right away. She was still forming her thoughts.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “It was impossible to miss how much he enjoyed it. And I agree that he did it on purpose—to confuse and disarm you so you’ll be at a disadvantage in discussing the terms. But Alaric, there’s something else.”

  “Something more than that?”

  She nodded. “That business about the summer palace having no great hall and his dining porch only accommodating nine, so unfortunately there will be no banquet—”

  “That was a boldfaced lie, you know. He holds banquets here all the time—outdoors, on some terrace that overlooks a garden. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “My very point, Alaric. He knows you have spies, same as he does. He knows you know he’s spinning a tale, which means he meant to insult you. And more troubling still, this ‘intimate little dinner’ to which you can only bring two guests while the rest of your party must stay behind and eat in the guest quarters—”

  “Incredibly rude.”

  “No, no, Alaric—think! It means you can only bring two of your knights. You’ll be in a small space, under his control, practically alone—and then, and then—” She got up from her chair and went over to the bed, where a beautiful toga and mantle lay in the tangle of clothes. “He gives us these ridiculous costumes like his ancestors used to wear—”

  “I told you; it’s the custom here.”

  “I know. And they’re exquisite, even mine. I’m sure they cost him a fortune. But look at this thing! It’s as light as a spider’s web and will offer you just as much protection. You might as well go naked to his little dinner.”

  “I see.”

  She dropped the toga and returned to her seat.

  “Alaric,” she said, “I’ll only ask this once, then I’ll never mention it again: Couldn’t we just leave—right now, this afternoon? Go back to Westria and find some other princess to get you an heir, and trust Lord Mayhew to go on strengthening your forces and keeping you safe from Reynard’s—”

  “No.”

  “You feel safe here? You trust King Gonzalo with your life?”

  “You promised not to mention it again.”

  “I’m not done mentioning it the first time.”

  “All right then, finish. Tell my why, after all our planning and considering everything we stand to gain here, you think we should turn tail and run. Have you seen a vision that portends my death?”

  She paused. It would be such an easy and convenient lie. But she couldn’t do it. “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

  “Not even another visit from the cat?”

  “Well, yes. But there was nothing—”

  “What did he say?”

  She sighed. “That in the game of chess, the queen is the most powerful piece on the board.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Not helpful. But Alaric, sometimes I know things in a general way—not spelled out clearly in a vision but powerfully strong all the same. And I’ve been feeling this terrible dread. I told you about it on the ship, remember? Only now that we’re actually here—” She balled her hands into fists and pressed them together, her body tense with the effort to find words to describe it. “It’s worse, Alaric. I feel death. I feel loss. It’s overwhelming, and it’s real.”

  He sat back in his chair and took his time before responding.

  “Molly, I’ve been thinking about what we discussed before, about how Gonzalo might already have made an arrangement with Reynard, one that includes my death. That troubled me a lot at first. But then I thought about it some more and decided it didn’t make sense.

  “Now, to answer to your question of a moment ago, of course I don’t trust King Gonzalo—except to act in his own interest. And if I were killed, Reynard would inherit Westria and combine it with Austlind into one immensely powerful kingdom, right on the northern border of Cortova. That wouldn’t benefit Gonzalo; it would turn Reynard into a threat. Don’t you see? Whatever we have to fear from him, it most certainly isn’t my death.”

  “It sounds reasonable. But it’s not what I’m feeling. I’m feeling death.”

  “As you said. But I can’t do it, Molly; I’m sorry. I can’t just turn around and leave. I’d look a fool, and I’d lose my chance, and I’d be a laughingstock—”

  “Oh, you’re impossible.”

  He shrugged.

  “Look—you brought me here to advise you, claiming to trust my Gift. That being the case, then my foreboding ought to balance out your logic. So be careful tonight. Keep your wits about you, and for heaven’s sake, bring your best knights. Brochton for sure, plus Merrywell. Or maybe Janson.”

  “No. I want you and Tobias.”

  “Why, Alaric? That’s insane!”

  “Because if you’re right, if danger is approaching, then a timely warning from you will be of far more use to me than a couple of knights who’ve left
their swords behind, as courtesy demands.”

  “Then bring me and Lord Brochton.”

  “You know I can’t do that. It wouldn’t look right.”

  “In case you weren’t aware of it, Alaric, being a king doesn’t make you immortal.”

  “I had heard that, but I dismissed it as an ugly rumor.”

  “At least forget the toga and wear your doublet, with chain mail underneath.”

  “That would offend my host.”

  “God’s breath but you’re stubborn! Will you bring the cup?”

  “No. Not yet. I want to get the lay of the land first, see what other surprises the good Gonzalo has in store for us. I wouldn’t put it past him not to bring the princess at all.”

  “Surely—”

  “I’ll grant it’s unlikely, but no more so than having us to dinner in the palace kitchen.”

  “Not the kitchen.”

  “You take my meaning. And I certainly don’t want to come bearing a gift for the princess only to have her father take it instead, promising to give it to her on the morrow.”

  “You’re right. He might take a fancy to it and keep it for himself—you know, for enjoying a nice little cup of chilled wine on a hot afternoon.”

  “Heaven help us, Molly—what a hideous thought! Do you suppose I would then have to marry horrible old King Gonzalo?”

  Suddenly it all seemed terribly funny and they laughed till they were almost sick. It felt good. It broke the tension.

  But after a while, when Alaric had regained his kingly composure, Molly went on laughing, unable to control herself. The laughter just kept coming, wave after wave of it, till her face was red and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Molly, stop,” Alaric said then, his voice sharp.

  But she couldn’t. She slipped off the chair and onto the floor, where she knelt, her face buried in her hands. Still the laughter came in spasms, only now its character had changed. It was as if a dam inside her had given way, and all the emotions that had been building up inside were pouring out. She felt lighter for having shed them, so light that she was half afraid she’d float away. But Alaric was holding her now, keeping her connected to the earth—though his arms gripped her rather too fiercely, as if he were restraining a wild and dangerous beast or a madwoman having a fit.