“Oh, not all the princes, milady.”
“Oh?” Mama looked up. “Brion stayed behind, then?”
“Brion? No, he went carousing with his brother, and Sir Orizhan to ward them, with a troop of guards.” Meg shook her head. “It was Prince John who stayed behind.”
“Prince John?” Mama demanded, suddenly intent. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain, milady.” Meg seemed taken aback by Mama’s sudden intensity. “He was most surely in the castle until he took to his bed—he went nosing about in the kitchens, asking me to his chamber, and when I told him no, he went into the hallway and pressed his demands on poor Alia. She told him nay, too, of course, so he went to his chamber in a sulk. Then Coquille fetched him mulled wine to help him sleep, and did not come out.”
Mama stiffened. “You do not mean he held her prisoner!”
“Oh, nay,” Meg said, with a little laugh. “Coquille is very hard and calculating. She threw herself away long ago, for the man who stole her maidenhead with a promise of marriage then jilted her, and she resolved to have gold from men, for she claimed she could depend on them for nothing else. She fairly boasted to us the next morning that she had sported in bed with Prince John until midnight, and that she took coins from him both before and after.”
The assassin had killed Gaheris about eleven, so John had a very thorough alibi. Mama frowned; she had been expecting him to be patently guilty, and was rather sorry to hear he was not.
“He still might have hired the assassin,” she told Papa when they went walking in the garden after breakfast.
“So might Drustan and Petronille,” Papa reminded her. “I never thought they might have wielded the knife themselves, but it is reassuring to know that they were both with Alisande and ourselves until ten.”
“After that, though? The murder happened only an hour later, after all.”
“I shall check to see if either of them went out.” Papa smiled. “It pays to cultivate the acquaintance of soldiers, particularly those who guard the chambers of royalty.”
The dragon banked low, struck the earth, and ran a short distance as it slowed, folding its wings.
“Thanks, Stegoman!” Matt climbed down. “You may have cleared up another problem for me.”
“Which, if I may ask?” the dragon rumbled.
“Well, I think you could say that if anyone wants to follow our trail, they’ll find it very difficult when we’ve just flown fifty miles.”
Sir Orizhan looked up, one hand steadying himself against the dragon’s side. “Who will follow us?”
“You never can tell,” Matt said. “How was your trip, Sergeant?”
“Better than yesterday’s.” Brock climbed to his feet; he had as much fallen off the dragon’s back as climbed. “I should be quite used to it by tomorrow.”
“Oh, don’t worry—we walk from here on.”
“Walk?” Stegoman fumed. “Wherefore, when you might ride?”
“Well, we’re trying to gather information,” Matt explained, “so we have to try to be inconspicuous. We’ll be across the border and into Bretanglia soon, so we have to go on foot. But thanks for the ride.”
“Can I do no more to aid you?” the dragon protested.
“Well, actually, you can,” Matt said. “Saul sent Narlh to check out conditions in Scotland and to watch for any signs of invasion, but the local dragons probably won’t accept him. Could you go along and see how bad things are there, and back him up if he needs it?”
“The valiant dracogriff? Of course!” Stegoman huffed. “Woe to any drake who seeks to singe him! Nay, I’ll fly north immediately!”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that crucial,” Matt said quickly. “You could spend one more night with us—you know, have a cow and settle down for some chat.”
“The journey has been long and tiring,” Stegoman agreed. “Very well, I’ll seek a steer and join your company for one more night.”
Matt sighed with relief. If the bauchan did manage to find them, it would probably think twice about causing trouble with Stegoman near.
Unless, of course, it managed to put him to sleep again.
Hastings Castle was small, as royal fortresses went, but the castellan and his family lived in a lodge in the courtyard, leaving twelve rooms for the use of the royal family. The structure was quite well situated to be the first dwelling to welcome its king and queen on their return to Bretanglia.
King Drustan strode into the Great Hall, yanking off his gauntlets, hurling them at a squire, and snarling at everyone about him. “I could have ridden in here with an army, and none to stop me! Castellan, have you no more sentries for the walls? Confound you, steward, send your bottler for wine! You knew I was entering the castle, the goblet should have been ready for my hand! Or are the sentries so lax that you did not know I was coming? Be done with that curtsying, wench, and fetch me bread and meat! Ninny, do you think I care for your homage? Varlet, you barely nodded your head! Do you not bow to your king?”
Queen Petronille was right behind him, snapping, “How long is it since these walls have been scrubbed? Sloven, are those tapestries never beaten? I see rust on the trophies and dust on the royal coat of arms! You there, do you call yourself a gardener? I shall stroll through your handiwork after dinner, and if I see so much as one weed, you’ll spend the rest of your life mucking out stables!”
Up the stairs they went, snapping and snarling at all about them, then into the solar, slamming the door behind them. There, Petronille sank into an hourglass chair, covered her face and loosed a torrent of sobs.
“Oh, be still!” Drustan snapped. “If you hadn’t insisted on taking the boys along, this never would have happened!”
“I!” Petronille snapped bolt upright, glaring at him through her tears. “If you hadn’t taken it into your head to go gallivanting off to Merovence, our son would be alive this day!”
“You were quick enough for the jaunt when I mentioned it!”
“Aye, to make sure you would not be trying to bed every wench you found!”
“At least they would not have made my bed a battleground!”
“Better your bed than our children!” Petronille blazed.
“Then why did you shower Brion with praise and John with criticisms? Not to mention poor Gaheris, which you did not, and look what has come of it!”
“Oh, indeed!” Petronille sprang to her feet. “And who was ever telling him that he must be cruel to be a man, and must prove his manhood by bedding every wench he saw?”
“Who told him he must never touch a woman at all?” Drustan returned.
“Save his wife!”
“Ah, but you did not tell him that!”
“You never heard! You were always far too busy planning your next slaughter and your next seduction—if you can so dignify commanding a helpless woman to submit to your embraces!”
“Submit?” Drustan roared. “They were glad enough to come to me, and you were too, till you saw I would not bow and scrape for it!”
“So because I would not shower you with honeyed words every hour of the day, you turned to Rosamund and sought to seduce a child under our protection!”
“There will certainly be no need for seduction now!” Drustan retorted. “Not when she must face the prospect of marrying your lapdog Brion!”
“See to it you dare not dog her lap, sirrah! Any woman would faint with delight at the thought of wedding Brion! It is the prospect of marrying your depraved little John that makes her faint with nausea!”
“A woman wants a man who is his own master, not forever the slave of his mother!”
“His own master, but not hers! Brion is a true knight and troubadour, chivalrous to the last, and will treat her with the respect due the lady she is!”