The Dragon Prince

by Mary Gillgannon

  The wooden platters and the remains of the feast were cleared away by Eastra and the other servants. She disappeared for a time, and Rhun prayed she would remain in the kitchen. But all too soon she returned with another platter, this one filled with honey cakes. From the edge of the room, Rhun heard the soft thump of a drum, then a sparkling cascade of notes from a harp. A second harpist joined the first, the two instruments blending to make a richer tone. The lilting tones of a shepherd’s pipe were the last to join the melody.

  The drumbeats quickened in tempo and the music grew more stirring. Morguese rose like a lazy cat from her cushion between Urien and Bridei. She ran her fingers through her long, unbound hair, then moved languidly into the open space where the roasted carcass had been. Some of the warriors moved the benches back to afford her more room.

  She motioned to a small flame-haired servant, and the girl came forward carrying a cloth bag. Morguese drew out the contents and with the girl’s help, began to tie the small bronze bells to her wrists with leather thongs. As Morguese drew up her gown so the girl could tie bells to her ankles, Rhun saw that their hostess was barefoot.

  Slowly, as if testing each movement to see what sound it made, Morguese began to dance. The bells rippled and chimed, blending with the rest of the instruments, forming a rich tapestry, thrilling and wild. Rhun felt his heartbeat quicken.

  Morguese’s lush form, clad in crimson, undulated like bright liquid spilling across the room. Her feet tapped rapidly against the hard-packed earthen floor of the hall, making the bells shimmer and sing. The melody was irresistible. It surged and subsided, like the waves of a sea lapping against the senses. Rhun exhaled a deep breath. He felt the music enter him, reaching down into his soul. It seemed to draw out all the aching turmoil inside him and concentrate it until it was a fine, golden thread pulling his thoughts out into infinity.

  He closed his eyes. His body was a husk blown in the wind, swirling and dancing in the mindless breeze. He soared above the land, like a kestrel gliding on the air, high above the mountains of Gwynedd. He saw the land spread out below him, heartbreakingly beautiful. Beyond Gwynedd stretched the rich blue green of the rest of Britain. Wild, deep-hearted forests. Rolling, jewel-green hills banded with the hammered filigree of silver and bronze rivers. And the sea beyond, vast and untamed.

  Gradually the tempo slowed; then ended in a glistening, sad cascade of notes. Rhun felt himself floating back to earth. He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering if anyone else had been affected as he had. The rest of the warriors sat silent and spellbound. Morguese shook her head, as if dispersing the last remnants of her magic.

  The musicians began another song. It was light and festive and gay, altogether different from the earlier melody. Rhun released a sigh. He had expected Morguese’s dance to be sexual and provocative, but it had another sort of power. It drew a man’s spirit into the music, made him feel lost and helpless before forces much greater than he was. He struggled against the new melody, not wanting to be affected again. But why fight something so cheerful and benign? This tune reminded him of being a boy, the bright weightlessness of his body, the untainted wonder of being alive.

  Morguese’s dance was playful, energetic. He was impressed that she could move so quickly. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and her hair swirled around her body like spilled wine. As the pace of the dance quickened, the warriors began to pound their fists on the small tables in front of them. They shouted and whooped, urging Morguese on. She was a flame swirling in the breeze, a ray of some bright sunset casting them all into her glory.

  When she finally whirled to a breathless stop, the men cheered loudly. Rhun wanted to join them, but an uneasy thought held him back. Urien had spoken of having Eastra dance. Would he make good on his threat?

  Eastra stood at the side of the room, her gaze riveted on Morguese. Never before had she seen a woman hold the attention of a whole group of men, making them feel her power. It was exhilarating, fascinating. No Saxon woman, even the wife of the most powerful king, would ever dare such a thing. Among Eastra’s people, women were honored and valued. They could own property and enter into legal contracts. But they always deferred to men. They were not bold and proud; they did not flaunt themselves in front of a crowded hall.

  Eastra struggled to decide what it was about Morguese that was so compelling. Was it the graceful, expressive way that she moved, interpreting the music, making it come to life? Was it her beauty, the sheer animal vitality of her voluptuous body? Or was it some sort of magic, a power that could not be seen, only felt? Eastra wished she knew her secret, and the thought came to her that maybe if she asked Morguese, the woman might teach her a bit of her skill. Urien’s wife did not seem hostile. Indeed, there had been a vague sort of warmth in the way she dealt with Eastra earlier.

  A planned formed in Eastra’s mind. She wanted to learn a little of Morguese’s technique for making men pay attention to her, to possess just a subtle hint of it so she would not always be so overlooked and unimportant. Even Rhun had a tendency to ignore her. He never asked her what she wished to do but told her what he thought was best. He treated her like a child. A dear and precious child, but nonetheless someone incompetent to make decisions about her own life.

  She was puzzling on how to approach Morguese when she heard someone call her name. Gazing across the smoky room, she saw Urien motioning to her. A wave of apprehension instantly made her muscles tighten. She walked slowly toward him. Had she neglected to keep his cup filled? The look on his face suggested something more important than that. He was watching her intently, clearly seeing her as a woman rather than a nameless servant.

  Her mouth went dry, and she glanced at Rhun. The alarmed expression on his face did not reassure her. Had Urien tired of this cat-and-mouse game he played with them? Was he now going to reveal that he knew her identity? Then what would happen? Would he imprison her? Or kill her and send word to Cerdic so the bitter war would resume?

  A vague smile played across Urien’s face as she drew near. He looked relaxed and a little drunk. “Eastra.” He said her name slowly, slurring it a little. “Beautiful lass that you are, would you dance for us?”

  Eastra stared, too startled to respond.

  Hearing Urien’s words and seeing the stricken expression on Eastra’s face, Rhun felt something inside him snap. He got to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “Nay.” He made his voice firm, although he tried not to raise it. “You have no right to ask such a thing of her.”

  Urien still smiled, but his response was low and taut. “I addressed my question to the woman. Let her answer.”

  The coil of fury tightened inside Rhun. Urien had her trapped and he knew it! Eastra was trembling. Rhun could see the fear in her lovely eyes. She started to speak...

  “Nay! I won’t permit it!” The words rushed out of his mouth, outraged and violent.

  Urien stared up at him, quirking a bushy brow. “You’re a guest here, Rhun ap Maelgwn. You do not issue commands.”

  Rhun thought frantically, trying to find an argument that Urien would listen to. “She’s my slave! I should be the one to order her to dance, not you!”

  “Then order her to dance.”

  Rhun could sense the threat behind his words. The warriors seated around the hearth shifted subtly, preparing to leap to their leader’s defense. Then everyone went silent and still, waiting. Rhun looked at Eastra. Her expression was desperate. Once before, she had implored him with her eyes, begging him to save her. He had not. Instead, he had walked away and left her to be enslaved and degraded. “Nay.” He spoke precisely as he drew his eating knife from its sheath on his belt. “I will not. She is my slave, to do with as I see fit. You will not give her orders.”

  He heard Eastra gasp. Then, with a sudden flurry of movement, there were Rheged warriors all around him.

  “Seize him,” Urien said calmly. “Prince Rhun has apparently forgotten what it is like to be a guest in a noble household. Perhaps a few da
ys of quiet contemplation will remind him of the courtesy his position requires.”

  * * *

  They were taking him away! As if he was a prisoner or a conquered enemy!

  Eastra wanted to cry out, but she was too shocked. She stared dumbly as Rhun was led from the hall. Then Urien turned his gaze on her once more. She thought he was going to ask her to dance again. She meant to refuse, to show them she could also be brave and defiant. Instead Urien smiled. “I’ve changed my mind. The time for dancing has passed.” He snapped his fingers. “You may return to your task of clearing away the remains of the feast.”

  Eastra moved numbly around the room, gathering up platters and cups. She was horrified by what had happened to Rhun. Once again, she had complicated his life and caused him difficulty. The sick guilt built inside her.

  As she carried her burden of dirty dishes to the kitchen shed, tears stung her eyes. She had to do something to help him. But what? If only she could speak to Bridei.

  She returned to the hall carrying a ewer of mead. When she neared Bridei, she caught his gaze, then made a subtle movement to indicate she wanted to speak to him outside.

  A short time later, she saw him say something to Urien, then get to his feet. She held her breath. Would they let him leave the hall, or was he also a prisoner?

  Bridei walked casually to the door and went out. Eastra waited until he had been gone a few moments, then set down the ewer and followed.

  It was dark outside the feast hall. Only a few smoky torches illuminated the pathway to the kitchen. Their flickering light cast wavy, shifting shadows. She moved away from the torchlight, struggling to see where Bridei had gone.

  “Eastra.”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. “By Freya!” she breathed.

  “Sorry.” It sounded like he was grinning.

  “Can you not be serious for once!” she hissed. “Rhun is a prisoner! Who knows what they will do to him?”

  “They won’t do anything to him. Unless he dies of sheer fury and aggravation, he’ll be well enough.”

  “But the way they’re treating him, like some common captive!”

  “Maybe it will be good for him. Force him to calm down and think rationally. For once.”

  “That’s not fair!” She wanted to strike Bridei. “It’s my fault he is in this predicament. I should have made it clear to Urien that I would not dance for him.” The guilty thought crossed her mind that before Rhun’s protest, she’d actually been trying to decide how to emulate Morguese’s skillful performance.

  “And what would that have accomplished?” demanded Bridei. “Urien would have stood his ground, and Rhun would still have acted like a hotheaded fool. Don’t you see? Urien planned this whole thing. He provoked Rhun deliberately. He wanted some excuse to claim offense. Now Rhun has given him one.”

  Eastra saw the trap their host had sprung. It angered her, but hardly eased her guilt. “It’s still my fault,” she said glumly. “If I had not enticed Rhun...” She stopped, abruptly recalling who she was talking to.

  Bridei laughed. “It’s a bit late to worry about that, isn’t it? My brother’s obviously smitten, and smitten badly. He’d take on Urien’s whole army to fight for your honor. Or for that matter, Cerdic’s army. Aye, you do make him vulnerable to his enemies, but it’s hardly your fault. He fell in love with you long ago. Whatever you did back there during the storm didn’t make much difference.”

  “We did nothing! Nothing at all!” Eastra drew in a sharp breath. She could not let Bridei guess what had happened under the great oak. He would think her a wanton. And given that Rhun had said he would not wed her, it was true.

  “Oh, aye. Nothing.” Bridei laughed again.

  “Stop it!” She struck out and hit Bridei’s chest. “Stop laughing! We must do something. Rescue Rhun, then escape somehow!”

  “Escape? From this stout fortress, guarded by two score of fierce warriors? Unless you know a way to sprout wings and fly, I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”

  “But we have to do something. We have to try...” Eastra took a deep breath. Bridei implied it was hopeless, but she could not accept that.

  “Why must we try to escape?” Bridei’s voice cut into her thoughts. “We are not in any danger here. Urien knows my father would wreak terrible vengeance upon him if he harmed Rhun or me in any way. And as for you, even if Urien knows who you are, you’re worth far more to him alive than dead. In the meantime, we are safe, well fed, comfortable...”

  “You’re certain Rhun is comfortable? What if they are holding him in some dark, dank hole?”

  “Urien would not mistreat him. I’ve told you that. As for the comfort of his thoughts, I don’t doubt Rhun is suffering the tortures of the damned right now. But it has ever been like that for him. You are merely the latest means he’s found to make himself miserable.”

  That was true. Ever since she’d found him again, she’d done little except made Rhun unhappy. “So you’re saying we wait here and do nothing? But what about the truce? What about Arthur? If he learns we haven’t arrived in Gwynedd he will think something has happened. He might blame Cerdic and go to war against him. Perhaps that’s even what Urien is planning!”

  “Perhaps. But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”

  Eastra heaved a sigh. Bridei was worse than no help at all.

  “Don’t be so discouraged” Bridei said. “I’ll tell you what I will do. I will try to find out Urien’s plans from Morguese. Then we’ll know how urgent the need is to get away.”

  “How will you find out anything from Morguese? She doesn’t seem like someone who could be tricked into giving up information.”

  “Ah, but there is every likelihood that Morguese has different things in mind than her husband does. She might even be willing to help us.”

  Eastra considered Morguese’s scornful comments about Urien and Arthur. Perhaps they had an ally there. “Perhaps I will talk to her also. If I can get up the courage for it, that is. Did you see how all the men watched her dance? And there was not merely lust in their eyes, but a kind of adoration. I have never known a woman who had that sort of power.”

  “Ah, Morguese, she is a witch, have no doubt of it. Even Arthur is afraid of her.”

  “And you?” Eastra asked. “Are you afraid of her?”

  Although she could not see him, she could well imagine Bridei’s smug expression as he answered. “She may be a witch, but she is still a woman. And I have not yet met the woman who can bewitch me.”

  Chapter 11

  Eastra returned to the hall, where she met Morguese coming out.

  “There you are,” Morguese said. “I had wondered where our little Saxon had gone. My husband says I must not let you out of my sight. I think he fears you will steal the wits of the other men as you have Prince Rhun’s.” Eastra felt a stab of guilt, but Morguese laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, your lover has not been harmed.”

  “He’s not my lover,” Eastra said quickly.

  “A pity,” Morguese said. “Although Rhun often acts stiff-necked and dutiful, I don’t doubt he’s a lusty man beneath that serious facade. I’m certain the right woman could easily lure him away from his noble ideals.”

  Eastra felt like squirming. It was unsettling to have this woman guess her less than honorable thoughts. She had plotted to distract Rhun from his obligations to his king, to make him care more for her than for the cause he fought for. Thinking about it, she felt devious and heartless.

  “Come. I tire of these men with their loud drunkenness. Let’s go to my chamber where we can talk.”

  Eastra followed Morguese among the twisting shadows. After the darkness of the fortress yard, the queen’s chamber seemed to glow with warmth and light. Although Eastra had been there before the feast, she’d been too anxious then take note of the furnishings and appreciate the heady private world Morguese had created.

  The walls were hung with rich tapestries, the floor covered with mats and fur
s and cushions. The two bronze lamps that lit the room were fashioned in the shape of elegant beasts—one a sort of deer, the other a bird with arched, delicate wings. The motif of animals appeared everywhere. The carved wooden table had claw-like feet. Proud dragons’ heads rose from each corner of the bed.

  The other impression was of color—rich gold, scarlet, deep blues and greens, pale saffron, rose, and lavender. Compared to the spare, open rooms of Roman houses, or even the crowded interior of a Saxon hall, this place appeared crammed to bursting. Chests and baskets were piled around, masses of clothing hung from a pole, small jars, bowls, and boxes covered every surface. And emanating from this mass of luxury was a multitude of exotic odors—spices and crushed herbs and other less identifiable scents. It was a feast for the senses, a dizzying swirl of color, shape, and fragrance—confusing, beguiling, and somehow disturbing. Here Eastra could clearly feel Morguese’s power.

  The queen seated herself on a cushion on the floor and smoothed her skirts around her. She pointed to a cushion nearby. “Sit. I will have Nevyn bring us some wine.”

  Eastra saw that the small red-haired girl had followed them. She was like a shadow, moving so silently and stealthily it was unnerving. Eastra examined Nevyn more closely as the young woman fetched a ewer and some cups from a corner of the room. Nevyn had speckled skin like the wet-nurse slave in Londinium, and her eyes were pale and almost colorless. She poured a cup of wine each for Morguese and Eastra, then one for herself. Then, with the delicate grace of a cat, she took a seat on a cushion nearby.

  “Ah,” Morguese said. “Now there are three of us. A much more fortuitous number than two.” Eastra realized they were seated in a kind of circle, almost exactly the same distance apart. Morguese nodded to the girl. “Nevyn is my apprentice. I wanted to pass on my knowledge to someone and since, alas, I have no daughters, I had to find a likely young woman to train. Nevyn is from Ireland. She was shipwrecked on the coast of Powys, the only survivor. No one wanted her for a slave, but I saw immediately she had some natural aptitude.” Morguese turned her attention to Eastra. “And now I have you as well.”