Mama rose and went to her, and Ortho had the good sense to leave without asking his sovereign’s permission.
Three days after Rosamund’s escape, the guard threw her door open and bawled, “His Majesty the King!”
King Drustan marched in, resplendent in velvet cloak and satin doublet, crown on his head and a gleam in his eye. “My dear, good news! We have won!”
He saw Rosamund standing at the window in a cream-colored gown embroidered with pale roses—only gazing out at the moat, nothing more.
Drustan frowned at the lack of response. “Do you not rejoice with me?”
“Rejoice with you.” The voice was dull; its owner raised dull eyes to his.
“Come now, is that any way to greet the conquering hero?” Drustan chided. He stepped over to her, snapping at the guard, “Close the door!” As it shut behind him, he cupped Rosamund’s chin and lifted her lips to his. They were cold, unresponsive, but not repelling him, either. Somewhat surprised, he tried a deeper kiss, and again received no rebuff, but no response, either. Still, the flavor pleased him and he drank deeper.
His hands began to shake with years of desire as he caressed her more and more intimately. The taste of her was sweet, though it would have been sweeter if she had returned his ardor or, better still, tried to fight him off. Nonetheless, he was glad of her resignation, glad that he would finally make her his own, no matter who married her. With trembling fingers he stripped her gown, caressing as he went, stepped back to admire her naked body—though its contours were not quite as rich as he had hoped—then swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He was amazed at her weight.
She watched him calmly, with a composure that was almost unnerving, as he undressed, and seemed to find the sight of his nudity neither repelling nor inflaming. Drustan frowned, determined to make her gasp with pleasure, and lay down be-side her, saying, “You’ll learn now the delights of royal lovemaking, my dear, and I’ll not let it cease till I hear you moan with longing.” He reached out to touch her breast as the fast rays of the setting sun colored her pale flesh, pale flesh that suddenly hardened, roughened, darkened, and Drustan froze, staring at shaggy bark. He shot a glance up at Rosamund’s face, but saw only a single knothole and the roughly sawn end of the log.
CHAPTER 10
Superstitious fear froze King Drustan for several moments. Then he sprang from the bed, shouting angry curses.
The guard hammered at the door, his muffled voice crying, “Majesty! Are you well?”
“Well enough!” Drustan cried, and dove for his clothes. Dressed, he turned to the door, then with a last thought turned to kick Rosamund’s gown under the bed. He turned back to yank the bar off the door. The guards tumbled in, weapons at the ready. “Who dares strike at Your Majesty?”
“A witch!” King Drustan pointed a trembling finger at the log. “Or perhaps that puling Lord Wizard of Merovence!”
The guards turned to stare, then paled with fear of the supernatural, making signs to ward off evil.
“Oh, be done with your womanish fears!” King Drustan snapped in disgust, all the greater because of the reminder of his own brief terror. “Send men out to seek for the princess! Send more to discover who has kidnapped her! Find me a wizard of my own, to discover whose work this is!”
The soldiers bowed and ran from the room, all too glad to get away from the scene of witchcraft. Drustan stood his ground, glaring at the log and fuming. He didn’t really believe that Matthew Mantrell had done this, but he would learn who had, and they would suffer for his embarrassment!
It was another night and another inn—but this time they were in Bretanglia, for during the day, they had crossed the Calver River, the border between Bretanglia and Merovence. Matt was constantly on edge now, and acting all the more casual because of it, very much aware of being an alien in his enemy’s land. At least he was accompanied by a knight who had acquired the accent of Bretanglia’s nobility, when he chose to use it, and a peasant who had been born with the burr of the village folk of the North Country.
The common room was full, peddlers and carters jostling elbows with the local farmers as serving wenches threaded through the maze of tables with handfuls of mugs and laden trays. The companions elbowed their way through to a few seats and wedged their way onto the benches.
“Good e’en to you, travelers!” A jovial carter raised his mug in welcome. “Have you come far?”
“From Bordestang, good fellow,” Sir Orizhan told him.
The man sobered at hearing his accent. “A weary trip, sir.”
“Weary indeed,” Sir Orizhan agreed, “but liable to prove unhealthy, if we had stayed.”
“So!” The carter raised his eyebrows. “The rumors are true, then?”
“Which rumors?” Sergeant Brock asked.
“That Prince Gaheris was murdered in Merovence, and King Drustan may make war upon Queen Alisande in revenge?”
“True enough,” Sergeant Brock said, “though who can tell how a king thinks?”
“But there’s no proof that he has call for revenge,” Matt said. “The killer might not have been a man of Merovence.”
The carter turned to him, frowning. “You’ve an odd way of speaking, friend. Where is your home?”
“I grew up far to the west,” Matt said, “very far.”
A peddler next to the carter leaned in and said, “We have heard it was a Merovencian sorcerer what struck the prince.”
“It might have been a sorcerer,” Matt agreed, “and it might have been a Merovencian—but the truth is that no one saw it happen, or who did it. They only know that a man leaped out the window right afterward, and he was both a sorcerer and a man of Bretanglia.”
“Was he! We’ve not heard of that!” the carter said.
But the peddler frowned. “Where have you heard this, fellow?”
Matt forced himself to ignore the “fellow”; after all, he was disguised as a peasant. “From those who saw it,” which was true enough.
“Did they?” Another peasant leaned in, his hood still up. “How did they know he was a sorcerer?”
“Someone saw him work magic.” Matt didn’t feel obliged to say whom. “As to his being a man of Bretanglia, that was his accent.”
“Phaw!” the third peasant said in disgust. “Any man can fake an accent!”
Matt shrugged. “It’s all just rumor, as our friend the carter said. But what news have you heard? There must be some folk come down from the north with word of the war there.”
“Ah.” The carter glanced to left and to right, checking who was in earshot, then leaned even farther forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “They say that when the Earl Marshal left Prince Brion alone, on foot and unarmed, one of his troopers turned back and saw a blue knight come riding down upon the prince and slay him.”
Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock sat stiff with shock, but Matt’s mind leaped past the emotion and onto what was, to him, just as important “Prince Brion was slain? And mere was a witness to it?”
“Aye, but he says the prince claimed the right to know who slew him, and the Blue Knight raised his visor.”
Matt braced himself. “What face did he see?”
“None.” The carter’s voice was hollow with dread. “The helmet was empty. Dark, and empty.”
The other peasants muttered and crossed themselves—but the one with his hood still up howled as though he’d burned his hand and leapt up from the table, stalking away.
The other peasants stared, watching him go. Then one said, “What bit him?”