“Why do you suppose?” Heptor had asked. “It is peculiar.”
“I can’t imagine, except that it must be part of his grand design. Perhaps he’s had a stag dipped in gold and put fairies up in the trees with lutes, and he just can’t bear to waste all that effort.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Any hope of getting out of the hunt altogether? We could say I can’t ride because I’ve lost the use of my legs.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, Heptor, I’m not serious! Have you no sense of humor at all?”
“No, my lord. Never did. But I’m glad you have and that you’ve found it again. I take that as a very good sign.”
Molly had returned, as promised, the morning after Alaric’s collapse and had since spent her days in the king’s villa. But she was usually to be found in some odd corner of the room, standing quietly while the others bustled about, fussing and fretting and telling the king what to do: “Take another spoonful of this pasty, insipid gruel, Your Highness.” “Have another dose of powdered chalk, glopped up with honey, my lord.” “Please take a sip of watered wine with strange, unpleasant additives, Your Majesty.” Or when they were offering him none of these things, “Have a nice little rest, Your Majesty.” It had been impossible for him to speak with her in private.
Then one day he reminded himself that he was the king and sent the whole lot of them out of the room; he wanted a moment alone with his friend, the lady Marguerite. Subtle looks of disapproval were exchanged by one and all, but there was no denying his request (though the physician privately urged her not to stay too long).
“Well, Molly,” he said as she pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down, “I must say you’re looking very grim. An outside observer would be hard pressed to tell which of us was the suffering patient and which the visiting friend, except that I’m in bed and you are not.”
She didn’t laugh.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he complained. “I’m surrounded by morose people. Can’t you manage a smile? Look at me: the very picture of rosy health!”
“On the contrary, Alaric. You’re as bony as a peasant’s hen, there are dark circles under your eyes, and your complexion is more green than rosy.”
“Thank you. I feel much better now.”
“This is serious, Alaric. You might have died!”
“And that’s supposed to be my fault?”
“No. Apparently Reynard’s.”
“So everyone seems to agree.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Almost,” he said. “Not quite.”
“Then tell me why.”
“I almost believe it because he’s the obvious person, the only one who stands to gain. He’s trapped in an impossible situation—we both are—and my death would bring him release. He’d inherit my throne, grow twice as strong, and have no further need of an alliance with Cortova.”
“And?”
“I don’t quite believe it for the same reason: because he’s the obvious person. He has to know that he’d be suspected of having me poisoned. His reputation would be destroyed, and that would trouble him greatly, as he is a proud man. Moreover, if he was publicly suspected of poisoning me, Westria would never accept him as king. Lord Mayhew would rise against him with the full force of the army. Reynard is smarter than that.”
“Maybe he was just desperate enough to do it anyway.”
“There’s another thing, Molly. My cousin is a hard and a ruthless man, but he’s not without principles. Where exactly he draws his lines has long been a mystery to me, but I can’t see him stooping to bribing a slave to poison my food. He would consider it low, demeaning.”
“Well, someone did it.”
“Yes. And no one else has a motive. It’s a puzzle.”
“Are you really going to join Gonzalo’s hunting party?”
“It’s right up there with inspecting vomitus on my list of amusing things to do.”
“Then don’t go. It isn’t wise. Whoever tried to kill you before will most likely try again. It’s someone here in Cortova, at least we know that much; and that someone will almost surely go on the hunt.”
“Or he’ll stay behind if I do and kill me while everyone’s away.”
“Oh, Alaric. Won’t you please listen to reason?”
“I never do, Molly. Haven’t you noticed?”
Day Twelve
22
The Hunt
THEY SET OUT EARLY, in the full dark of early morning. Gonzalo and his courtiers had laid their togas aside for the occasion and wore doublets and hose like everybody else. All were equipped as if for battle: mounted on coursers, armed with bows and arrows, the gentlemen carrying swords, and everyone wearing hunting horns that hung low from baldrics strapped across their chests.
A little before sunrise, they arrived at the king’s hunting park. Huntsmen and dogs were already milling about, and liveried grooms stood ready to take their horses. A trestle table, draped in forest-green linen and covered with a lavish spread of dishes, had been set up in a clearing so the guests could break their fasts. And carpets had been laid out on the ground, on which were many little stools for the hunters and their ladies to sit upon. In keeping with the rustic setting, they were to serve themselves and would eat their meal off wooden trenchers.
Tobias had been looking forward to this hunt, mostly because it would give him a chance to be with Molly. He hadn’t seen her since the night the king had collapsed, and he’d stored up a vast quantity of things he wanted to discuss with her. But in this she had disappointed him. Though they’d ridden side by side for nigh on two hours, Molly had said hardly a word. And now as they sat side by side in the clearing, trenchers of food on their laps, she was just as quiet and withdrawn.
Molly was troubled, that was clear enough. But in the past she’d shared her worries with him. Over the years, in one dangerous situation after another, they’d worked out a plan together: each spotting problems the other had missed till they arrived at a good conclusion. So whatever burden she carried now—and Tobias was pretty sure he knew—there seemed no point in her carrying it alone.
He turned to catch her eye, but she was looking elsewhere. So Tobias followed her gaze and saw—no surprise—that she was watching Alaric.
The king stood some distance away, leaning against the trunk of a tree, talking with the princess. He’d always been slight; but now he was gaunt, almost frail, and it passed through Tobias’s mind that he might not be recovered at all. Perhaps the physician had been mistaken in his diagnosis or his treatment.
The princess now leaned closer to Alaric—smiling and looking down and to the side, as one does when saying something wicked or when making a clever remark that has a private quality to it—and Alaric’s face lit up with amusement. Then she raised her eyes and met his directly, apparently proud of her own wit and eager to have his response. He gave it to her in the form of a warm smile. Then she said something else, and he just listened, gazing at her so fixedly that you’d think she was in danger of disappearing should he forget himself and look away.
Tobias found this fascinating to watch. It was as if the two were entirely alone, not surrounded by near a hundred people. And then he remembered: of course! Alaric had given her the cup.
What a terrible decision that must have been for the king to make: binding himself to someone with a love that would never end when he had no assurance they could actually be together. Gonzalo didn’t care about his daughter’s feelings, however ardent they might be. The lady and the treaty would go to the highest bidder. And if that turned out to be Reynard, then Alaric would have to watch as his beloved was carted off to Austlind to marry that lack-wit, Prince Rupert. Horrible for him and horrible for her—on top of losing the alliance.
Now Tobias looked at the couple again with all of this in mind, curious to see what undying love was like and whether affection wrought by magic was different from the ordinary kind. But he saw nothing dramatic�
��just two people happy to be together, interested in what the other had to say and eager to be amused.
And judging from Tobias’s own experience, that’s what love was all about: comfort and friendship, trust and ease, little jokes, loyalty, devotion, and understanding. The only difference was that in the real world, you really had to know a person before you could love her. And that took time—months, even years of being together in all sorts of different situations. Gradually it crept up on you, the sense that somehow this person had become essential to your happiness and that you would do anything to protect her, no matter what the cost. Did Alaric and Elizabetta have all that too, he wondered—instantly and unearned?
He turned back to Molly. This time she noticed.
“Will you ride?” he asked. “Or stay here with Lady Eleanor and Lady Claire?”
“I’ll ride.”
He nodded. He’d expected she would, not out of any interest in the hunt but because she sensed the king might be in danger and hoped that somehow, if she was there, she might be able to protect him. Tobias agreed with this decision. She needed to go. All the same, he was as worried about her safety as he was about Alaric’s.
Molly was not a skilled rider. Long trudges through the countryside were one thing, but she didn’t feel comfortable at a gallop. And this hunt would be unlike anything in her experience. It would be a crush of horses and men, with caution thrown to the winds in the excitement of the chase. Unless Alaric hung back to an extraordinary degree, there was no way she could keep up with him. And if she tried to do so, she would put her life at risk.
“Molly,” he said, “we need a plan.”
“Such as?”
“Something that doesn’t involve your being trampled by horses.”
“Ah.”
“Go at your own pace and stay away from the racers. You’ll know right away who they are. They’ll have this wild look about them, as if the world’s going to end if they don’t get to the stag first. I swear it’s a form of madness. They’ll ram you and knock you out of your saddle without even noticing they’ve done it.”
“But there’s no point in riding at all if I’m too far behind to warn Alaric if something’s going to happen. The whole reason—”
“No, Molly, listen. We can do it together. I can easily stay at his side. If you sense so much as a whiff of danger, blow your horn. I’ll do the rest. And you can concentrate better on listening for a warning if you’re not terrified of being thrown off your mount.”
She took up her horn with a hint of amusement and pretended to blow it. “Like this?”
“Exactly so, only louder. That is to say, making an actual sound.”
“Thank you, Tobias. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She was grinning now, almost playful, and Tobias felt relief wash over him. These last few weeks Molly had become overwhelmed by fear and dread. And this was a problem, not just because it made her unhappy, but because it made her weak. She’d lost that remarkable combination of fierce toughness and reckless self-assurance that had carried her victorious through every kind of danger. And if there was ever a time when she was going to need it, that time was now. How wonderful, then, to see the light return to her eyes and to recognize the old, familiar Molly.
“Just blow the horn,” he said again, “and I’ll protect him with my life.”
“I know you will.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “We always were a good team,” she said.
In the time since Tobias had been made a lord, he’d done a bit of hunting, so he thought he knew what to expect. You found a stag, you flushed him out of his hiding place, then you thundered after him, your hounds at his heels, until someone managed to take him. Or, alternatively, you ran him to the point of exhaustion, making it an easy shot, generally reserved for the host or an honored guest.
But a royal hunt, he now realized, was something altogether different. It was a spectacle, as complicated and carefully planned as the assembling of an army for battle. In addition to the usual men and horses, you needed a small battalion of dogs of varying breeds, each highly trained in a particular skill: gaze hounds, scent hounds, and running hounds. All were accompanied by expert handlers, one for every two dogs, who placed them exactly where they needed to be to do what they needed to do and let them loose at just the right moment.
In addition to the dog handlers, the king’s hunting staff included horn blowers, archers, a chief huntsman and his many subordinates, twenty sergeants of the hunt, and a host of pages and grooms. All were identically dressed in caped hoods of forest green—presumably so they would blend in with the trees.
And as with any army, there must first be reconnaissance: advance men who gathered information. In this case, it was the king’s gamekeeper, who’d gone out into the forest days before to track down a stag he deemed worthy of a royal hunt, after which he’d kept a close watch so as not to lose him before the king and his guests arrived.
As everyone in Cortova must know by now (for Gonzalo had not stopped talking about it since the moment they arrived), the gamekeeper’s quest had led him to an enormous hart, or male red deer, with a rack of fourteen tines.
The stag was now harbored in a fern thicket. And as soon as everything and everyone was in place, he’d be driven out by the first relay of hounds, sent along a path of the huntsmen’s devising. Sergeants would be stationed along the way to keep him on course as he fled from the baying hounds and the host of hunters who pursued him through the forest.
King Gonzalo, together with his knights, Prince Castor, and the princess Elizabetta, would be positioned at the end of the run, the choice spot for making the kill. Alaric had volunteered to wait farther up the line—a less desirable place, as it meant almost no chance of taking the hart (and a lot more running for the horses). This had been a gesture of courtesy, and Gonzalo had taken it as such. But in truth, Alaric didn’t care whether he killed the stag or not. He just wanted to stay alive, get this day over with, go back to the summer palace and finish the blasted negotiations, then return to Westria, where he could hunt in peace in his own forest any old time he liked.
They were assembled now, waiting for the hunt to begin. From somewhere in the distance a horn gave the signal that the handlers had let slip the dogs. Now a raucous baying of hounds rose up as the stag was driven out of cover, followed by the rumble of hooves as the first relay of hunters began the chase. Alaric’s party waited their turn, keeping a tight rein on their restless mounts and fixedly watching the path where—soon, very soon—the hart would come dashing by.
But Tobias was turned in the opposite direction, scanning the trees, alert to any movement, any patch of color that didn’t belong in a forest. He knew how easy it would be for an assassin to slip up behind them while everyone was looking for the stag. But he saw nothing—or nothing yet.
Tobias turned to Molly, and she nodded in understanding, a deep furrow between her brows. She’d sensed it at the exact same moment he had: The knights had been seduced by the thrill of the chase. They’d forgotten they were there to protect the king.
The tension was rising now. The knights, and even Alaric, were almost breathless with anticipation: muscles taut, senses tuned, ready to spring into action the moment the hart came into view. Their coursers danced in place, eager and impatient, as the sounds of the approaching pack grew louder and louder. And then, with astonishing suddenness, the noble hart—with his beautiful russet coat and great rack of antlers—passed them in a blur of motion, leaping with incredible grace, his hooves striking the hard-packed earth like the beat of a drum. And not far behind him came the dogs and the first relay of mounted hunters.
In an instant the king and his men were off, joining the melee, and Tobias was close behind. Now he urged his mount forward through that crush of men and horses and made slow but steady headway till he reached Alaric’s side. There he stayed, alert for any sign of danger.
But that didn’t keep him from worrying about Molly. For a royal hunt was not just g
rander than the ones on his neighbors’ estates; it was also a lot more dangerous. There were many more riders, for one thing. And they weren’t just a bunch of country gentlemen out for a day of sport; most of them were knights, trained to ride into battle. They were aggressive, fearless, and wild with excitement. You didn’t want to get in their way.
The terrain was trickier, too. The path was uneven, and while it was broad in places, it would occasionally grow narrower. So the pack would spread out, then come together again. And in the midst of all that, even if Molly kept clear of the wildest racers, she could still be thrown off balance. Or another rider, pressing too close as he passed, might pull her boot out of the stirrup. However it happened, if she were to fall, she’d be trampled by the horde that followed.
More than anything, Tobias wanted to turn back and make sure that she was all right. But he’d promised to stay by Alaric and keep him safe, so that’s what he did. And he was just noting, with some concern, how exhausted the king looked when he heard the sharp blast of a horn.
Neither Molly nor Tobias had realized when they’d made their plan that there’d be so many horns being blown in the chase. There was apparently a whole language of signals, familiar to everyone but them. There might be one blast, or two, or three. They might be quick, or long and sustained. One might mean “all assemble,” while another sent the dogs on the chase, and a third encouraged them to run faster. No doubt there was also a call of distress and a different one to say that the stag had left the path and was taking an unexpected route.
But this particular blast was like none of the others. It sounded like a girl who’d never blown a hunting horn before but was desperate to get someone’s attention.
“Alaric!” Tobias screamed. “Watch out!”
Even as he cried the warning, an arrow came singing out of the underbrush. Tobias reached out instinctively to pull the king down, but it was already too late. The arrow, perfectly aimed, was coming too fast.
The Princess of Cortova Page 13