The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  But then the memory faded, and she continued to fight Siddonie, keeping her eyes expressionless.

  The queen watched her intently. “You may rise, Melissa.” She nodded, smiling, as if she had seen in Melissa’s face obedience to her spells. “You will return to the scullery when I dismiss you.” She moved away from the mantel and drew her fingers along the back of a satin chair. “You will tell Briccha that from this day you are to work only in the mornings. Once you have spoken to her you will go to the dressmaker to be fitted for two plain, serviceable dresses. I have chosen the fabric. Then you will go to the bootmaker for sandals. You will come to me promptly each afternoon when you are summoned, not before.

  “You will like my lessons, Melissa.” She gave her a look of complicity, as if they were close now. “I mean to train you to skills you don’t yet imagine, very special skills. If you learn as I expect you to do, you will know powers perhaps to equal my own power.”

  Melissa left the solar quickly, and stood in the wide passage shaking, sick with apprehension. She was exhausted from her resistance to Siddonie’s spell, all strength seemed drained from her. She tried to recall the fleeting memories that had touched her but they were gone now and without meaning, leaving her puzzled and afraid.

  In the scullery she delivered the queen’s message to Briccha, then escaped quickly to find the sewing rooms. There she endured the slow ritual of being measured. She went to the bootmaker, and again was measured and prodded by strangers. And now, with Siddonie’s unexplained interest in her, she might have little time to search for the Harpy’s mirror. Once the queen’s tests began, she would likely be watched more closely.

  She must find the mirror quickly, she must look into the past and learn the spell Siddonie had used to lock away the rebel prisoners, she must free them and escape with them, escape the dark queen.

  But that night when she went to search for the Harpy’s mirror, slipping down from the attic toward the king’s chambers, the queen’s maid was on the landing. And the next afternoon when she tried again, two pages were waiting outside the king’s door. The third time, very late as she approached the king’s chamber, Vrech came out of the queen’s door nearly on top of her. As she turned away, he caught her wrist.

  “What are you doing down here? You belong in the attic at night.”

  “I’m hungry. I’m on my way to the scullery.”

  “This is not the way to the scullery, my dear.” Smiling, Vrech began to stroke her cheek. She kicked him in the shin and jerked away, and went quickly up the back stairs, her nostrils filled with the smell of stale sweat.

  She did not go down again that night. The queen’s testing started the next day.

  On foot she followed the queen’s horse toward the woods south of the palace. She was flanked by four mounted soldiers. Walking between the horses she felt very small. And she felt stiff, sick, and cold with fear. She didn’t know what would happen if she passed Siddonie’s tests. But if she didn’t pass she would be of no use to the queen and would likely be sent away.

  When Siddonie drew her horse up, Melissa paused behind her at the edge of the woods.

  The queen spun her horse suddenly to face Melissa and pointed toward a broad oak. “Do you see that dove?”

  “I see it.”

  “Bring it down.”

  “I have no weapon.”

  “Don’t sass me.”

  She stared up at the queen. The queen looked back impassively. “Bring it down or I will use a harsher spell on you.”

  Angered, Melissa made a simple killing spell. But she intentionally muffed it. The dove bleated and flapped away unharmed.

  When it landed, the queen said, “Kill it now. Do not make another—error.”

  There was no help for it. She brought the dove down smoothly. The small bird screamed, fell struggling among the leaves, and lay dead.

  “Fetch it,” said the queen.

  Obediently she picked up the limp, warm bird. As she gathered it in her hands, a sharp excitement filled her. Suddenly she longed to tease it, to play with it. Shocked, she stared at her grasping hands. Woodenly, not understanding herself, she carried the bird to Siddonie and dropped it at the feet of her horse.

  The queen rode over the bird, crushing it, and began to describe the next test. “You will call a war horse to you—that bay gelding in the pasture. You will make it obey the commands I give you.”

  Melissa called the gelding. He jumped the fence and came galloping. He was tall and heavily made, and more willing than a stubborn pony.

  “Make him run free to the forest then bring him back.”

  It was harder to control the gelding at a long distance, but she brought him trotting back. Under Siddonie’s direction, she worked with the gelding all afternoon. Only twice did he defy her; then the queen brought him back with her own spell, quickly, deftly. It was dusk when Siddonie released her.

  There were no more tests for two days. The queen quit the palace before dawn the next morning, riding out with Vrech. Melissa watched from the window beside her bunk.

  She had awakened feeling ill. For two days she dragged herself about wanly, making no effort to search for the Harpy’s mirror. The illness was so sudden she thought perhaps the queen had laid a spell on her and when, the morning the queen returned, she felt completely fit, she was certain of it. An hour after her return, the queen summoned Melissa to a tiny courtyard at the back of the palace.

  An armed soldier stood beside Siddonie. And there was, in the queen’s eyes, an intensity that alarmed Melissa. Siddonie said, “You will turn his sword aside when he strikes at you.”

  Melissa stared at the queen, not understanding.

  Siddonie repeated the order, as if to someone very stupid, “You will deflect his sword with your own powers. Only your own magic will save you from being struck through or beheaded.”

  “I cannot do such a thing. I never have done anything like that.” And in truth she had not; this was beyond her powers. She watched the queen, terrified.

  “He does not feign this,” Siddonie said. “You will turn the sword or you will die.”

  But it was a test—surely it was only a test.

  “If you cannot turn his sword, you are no use to me. He is instructed to kill you.”

  Fear and rage sickened her. She had no way to know the truth. If the soldier had been ordered to kill, he would kill. He moved suddenly, his blade flashed upward toward her face. Fear shocked through her. Her terrified spell wrenched the blade from his hand so sharply he went off balance.

  She drew back, faint, not believing what she had done.

  The queen smiled. “Very good. We shall try a few more.”

  “No. I will not do more. I don’t like this. What are you training me for?”

  In two strides the queen was before her, and slapped her against the wall. “You have no choice. You will do two more. Or you will die.”

  The soldier crouched, circling Melissa. When his sword thrust up at her she was so enraged, so hot with anger and fear, she shouted a spell that sent him sprawling across the tiles.

  Again he came at her, crouching, dodging. Her blood pounded. She shouted a spell that turned his sword toward the queen’s throat; only at the last instant did Siddonie’s oath cast his blade aside.

  “No more,” Melissa said.

  The queen smiled with triumph. “Very good, indeed. Soon, my dear, I will teach you some of my own skills.”

  Melissa’s hands were sweating. She didn’t like this; she was close to pure terror, close to losing control. She did not want to be Siddonie’s disciple. She was frantic with the need to escape.

  But she could not run away, not until the rebels were free. She watched Siddonie narrowly, waiting for the next test.

  Chapter 11

  The banquet hall was noisy—laughter and drunken shouts rose over the music. Melissa glanced in as she slipped past the serving door. There were three visiting kings with their queens and entourages. She had glimpsed K
ing Ridgen of Mathe in the grand foyer, and Terlis had pointed out the king of Wexton and Siddonie’s brother King Ithilel of Xendenton. Market Festival was the biggest celebration of the year. All day the scullery had seethed with strange servants added to the Affandar kitchen staff. And the courtyard had been in a turmoil of workers setting up the market booths and stringing colored banners. The visiting soldiers and the lesser servants were camped outside the castle, as were peasants from all over Affandar who had brought their wares for sale, their jewelry and weavings, their carvings and livestock.

  Though the palace seemed bursting with people, surely at this moment with everyone at banquet, the upper halls would be empty. Melissa hurried up the back stairs and along the empty corridor toward the king’s chambers, strung with nerves. She had vowed to herself that tonight she would find the Harpy’s mirror, that she would learn her past, learn the spell to free the rebels, and get out of there. Leave the palace, get away from Siddonie’s tests and training. Now as she reached for the knob to the king’s chamber, from beyond the door she heard a woman laugh, a breathy giggle. She drew back against the wall, heard the king say, “It’s only a little ruffle, come let me remove it,” and the woman giggled again. Melissa fled for the back stairs and up to the safety of her attic chamber, both shocked and amused. The king had deliberately missed the banquet, flaunting his dalliance with some visiting serving girl, or perhaps with a visiting wife of royalty.

  But not until the next morning in the scullery did she hear that the king had taken ill before the banquet, and of course she said nothing. The scullery was a turmoil of confusion as pastries and hams, sweets and sausages were prepared for the booths, as loaves were pulled from the ovens, and venison and game birds put to broil for royal breakfasts. As dawn touched the scullery shutters, Melissa stacked warm pastries onto a cart. She had been chosen to have a booth, and under the envious glances of the other girls, she wheeled her cart away to the courtyard. She was wearing one of the new dresses—a plain green wool that pleased her.

  The courtyard was bright with draped booths and with colored banners blowing against the granite sky. When she had settled into her booth and laid out the pastries, she watched folk streaming in through the gates. The crowd was a mix of queen’s peasants and visiting servants. Soon she was busy selling turnovers and meat pies as folk flocked to break their fasts. In the booth across from her, cider was sold, and in the next booth a jester juggled silver balls. Farther down the row, the puppeteers were warming up with smutty jokes. The music of lute and rota, horns and vielle echoed against the sky like a dozen bands.

  How quickly her pastries vanished. Twice she sent a page for more. It was mid-morning when she saw King Efil descend the marble stairs, swinging a red cape over his purple jerkin and trousers. He began to tour the booths, stopping to throw darts, then to laugh at the puppets. He was so young, hardly older than she. She wondered where his partner was from last night, which of the visiting young women. Though it was common practice, she found the promiscuity of royalty unsettling. This was not the way of the peasant families; there could be nothing of loyalty or deep love in such a life. When the king turned suddenly toward her booth, she felt her face go hot.

  A young page followed him, carrying two mugs of ale.

  “Pastries, then!” the king said, laughing, his dark eyes fully on her. “A dozen pastries. The lamb, the currant—four of those peach—some scones.” His gaze never left her. As she wrapped the pastries in a linen cloth, he leaned close across the counter. She backed off, handing him the package, but his hands lingered on hers and his voice was soft.

  “Come out from the booth, Melissa. My page will relieve you. You’ve been in there since daybreak.”

  “I—I can’t do that.”

  His eyes hardened. “Come out now. You will join me for a picnic in the orchard.” He took the mugs from the page and nodded, and the boy slipped under the counter into the booth beside her. The king balanced the mugs in one hand. The twitch at the corner of his mouth deepened, his eyes darkened with excitement. “Wander the fair for a moment, my dear, then come through the east gate to the vineyard. Don’t be long. Come while the pastries are still hot and the ale has not gone flat.” He gave her a last deep look that made her giddy, then he turned away and was gone into the crowd.

  She looked after him, cold and still. She felt heated. Shamed. Uncertain.

  One did not defy a king’s orders.

  Beside her the page was rearranging napkins over the pastries. He didn’t look at her. She supposed he knew every lover the king took. Embarrassed, she slipped under the counter and moved away.

  She watched the puppet antics of stag and dragon, hardly aware of them. She told herself she would share the king’s picnic, that she need do nothing more. He couldn’t force her; she didn’t think he was strong enough to force her. Yet beyond her resolve her own heat built, and she saw again the dark, needing look in his eyes. She moved nearer the gate, but then paused beside the stall of a jeweler.

  She need not go to meet the king. She need not if she was afraid.

  Idly she examined the old dwarf’s jewelry. It was plain, unremarkable work. But suddenly a different light shifted across his necklaces, suddenly she saw a brighter jewel shining above the common jewelry like a thin dream: she saw in a vision a tear-shaped emerald, a magnificent stone. It was a pendant: the oval emerald was circled by two gold cats standing on hind legs, their paws joined as if they guarded the gem. The pendant was so lovely she reached…

  The vision vanished. The dwarf’s jewelry lay dully across the counter.

  She stood clutching the edge of the booth, trying to understand what she had seen. The dwarf looked at her absently as he traded with a peasant family, taking their uncut diamonds in exchange for a small pig he had tethered inside the booth. Giddily she moved away, confused and light-headed.

  Had the jewel been a true vision? Some heightening of perception she didn’t understand?

  Or had it been a memory from her past?

  Still seeing the emerald pendant, she moved unaware through the crowd until she realized she was approaching the east wall. She stood uncertainly before the small gate.

  If she didn’t obey the king, he would make her wish she had. She decided she would just go out and explain to him that she didn’t want to share his bed. Be direct was what Mag always said. She would be nice to him, but firm. She reached for the latch but then drew back.

  To be nice to a man when he was primed for the bed, could lead a girl straight into that bed.

  She turned away. King or not, she wasn’t going out there to share his picnic.

  She began to wonder how long he would wait in the vineyard. Suddenly, feeling giddy, she knew what she must do.

  She fled for the scullery and the back stairs. At this one moment she knew exactly where the king was, and if she was fast, she could be in his chambers and out again with the Harpy’s mirror while he waited for her in the vineyard.

  Chapter 12

  “University of Chicago,” Olive Cleaver said, dusting cake crumbs from her flowered dress. Under her brushing hand, orange birds of paradise jabbed across a purple field. She sat opposite Braden at his terrace table drinking coffee and eating the cake she had baked. Her frizzy gray hair and sallow face were not flattered by the bright afternoon light and the Woolworth dress, but her eyes were intelligent and lively. “The carbon fourteen test was developed there. It’s a wonderful new test; it will entirely change historical research.”

  Braden watched Olive, amused not by her facts, which were perfectly correct, but by her enthusiasm. She had come down the garden bringing the carrot cake, wanting to talk. Such gifts embarrassed him, but he had made fresh coffee, brought some plates and forks out on the terrace, wiped off the table. Olive never bothered him when he was working, but seeing him on the terrace in the middle of the day was all the invitation she needed.

  “I took only one splinter from each of the five planks,” she said. “I wanted
to know if they were all the same age. They were.” She nodded when he lifted the coffeepot, accepting a refill. “All they do is burn the material. The gases from the burning are converted to carbon and put into a special Geiger counter—well, I’m sure you know more about it than I do. I know you do read something besides art magazines.”

  She blew delicately on her coffee. “Of course the test will tell only the age of the timbers, not of the carvings themselves. But still, it isn’t so likely that new carvings would be made on very ancient timbers.

  “I do wish, though, they wouldn’t take so long. I suppose they have a backlog, and of course legitimate research comes first.” She looked up the garden toward the oak door. Anne Hollingsworth’s orange cat was sitting in the ferns staring intently at the door, almost as if drawn to it. Olive said, “If the door is very old, I feel as Alice did, that it should be in a museum. Yet I can’t bear to think of removing it. That door is why I bought the house, it was the door that first led me into the garden.” She cut her cake into small bites. “And after all, maybe it is a copy. Anne thinks it is.”

  And of course Anne would, Braden thought. Their neighbor, Anne Hollingsworth, had a mathematical mind that would never believe something so improbable as a valuable antique standing forgotten in their garden. He looked up the garden, fixing on Anne’s staid Cape Cod house, traditional and unexciting. Anne wasn’t given to Olive’s fanciful flights and enthusiasms. Nor did she succumb, either, to Morian’s brand of keen relish for living.

  It amused him that he had three female neighbors who were his good friends. He toyed with his cake, wondering why, in his thoughts, he wanted to defend the antiquity of the door against Anne’s unimaginative turn of mind.