A Fate Worse Than Dragons Page 4

  “Oh my God,” said Miligras. “This isn’t another one of your plans, is it?”

  “Just do it,” Gloria said.

  As a man with an earned knighthood, Terry was required to put in his months of annual service to the king. Because he chose to serve in the Royal Guard, he was generally able to enter the palace without anyone taking much notice. The night of his return was a little bit different. It was a clandestine meeting, so he was not in uniform. He cleaned up and changed clothes as soon as he arrived back at the city; but he was stiff and sore from the fracas with the dragon, and he still looked as if he had been in a fight. Nonetheless, he was able to avoid the guards on duty, let himself in through a little-used service entrance, and make his way to a suite of offices used by scriveners during the day and by no one at night. The Princess was already there, waiting for him. Gloria had concealed herself again in a loose cloak and hood, but Terry was able to recognize her immediately. This was because she launched herself at him the moment she saw him and covered his face with kisses.

  When they eventually disentangled, Gloria explained about Roland, and Terry explained about Jane. The whole story took a bit of time, because he periodically had to wait for Gloria to stop giggling. “Huggins?” she said. “Omigod, Huggins! Oh, the poor, poor man.” She started laughing again.

  “It’s not funny,” said Terry, although it was, and he had to work to hide his own smile. “I still owe him for this month’s wages. I’ll have to send a cheque.”

  “We must send a wedding present. What shall it be? For Huggins, something he can drink, I suppose.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate anything that comes in a cask.”

  Gloria grabbed Terry’s hand. She tugged him into an empty room, found a tinderbox on a table by the door, and passed it to Terry. “I have a surprise for you. Light that candle over there, please.”

  Terry lit a candle while Gloria lit a lamp. Light suffused the small office. Gloria stood in the middle of the room, holding her cloak tight around herself, the hood pulled close to her face. He waited expectantly. When she was sure she had his attention, she flung off the cloak with a dramatic flourish, and did a little pirouette. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Do you notice anything different about me?”

  Long experience had taught Terry the answer to this question. “You’ve lost weight!” he said approvingly. “And you look great! Of course you looked great before, but now the extra definition really enhances your . . .”

  “Wrong,” snapped Gloria. “Try again.”

  “A new dress,” said Terry enthusiastically. “It looks great! The color goes so well with your eyes.”

  “Are you blind? Sometimes I swear all men are blind.” She tossed her head and pointed at her hair. “I changed my hair color.”

  Terry carefully looked her over. “No you didn’t.”

  “Of course I did. It’s blond.”

  “It was blond.”

  “Not this blond. Before it was Light Honey Gold, and now it’s Medium Almond Sunburst.”

  “It looks the same.”

  Gloria crossed her arms. “I don’t believe this. You know, Terry, women go through a lot of trouble to look good for their men, and the least you men can do is try to show some appreciation.”

  “I get my hair cut every month. I don’t jump in front of every woman I meet and say, ‘Well, what do you think?’ ”

  “That’s because your hair always looks the same.”

  But yours does look the same, Terry knew enough not to say. Instead, he chose a strategic retreat. He took her arm and gently guided her closer to the lamp. “Well, of course,” he said with conviction. “The light wasn’t good enough for me to tell at first, but now that you’re nearer the lamp I can see the dramatic difference. Yes, it’s beautiful. It is truly quite striking.”

  “Do you really think so?” said Gloria, cuddling closer to him.

  Terry stroked her hair. “Of course. It looks great. And the color goes so well with your eyes.”

  “Such a charmer,” murmured Gloria. She gave him a finishing kiss, then got businesslike. “Now then. If anyone asks, you’ve been hunting at Lord George’s lodge for the past month. I’ll tell Jenny to tell George to support your story. No one keeps track—there are always hunting parties going on there for boar and hart. Tomorrow I’ll go to the College of Heraldry. I know a few of the clerks there. It won’t cost much to have them cobble up a coat of arms for Huggins and slip it into the records. Did anyone see your crest?”

  “It’s on my armor.”

  “The preux chevalier, right? A helm with a red mantle? I’ll have the clerk develop something that looks similar for Huggins. Probably no one in Dasgut will remember your crest, but if the question does come up, they’ll just think they were confused.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll also visit the records clerk at the tournament committee and have him insert Sir Huggins into the lists for a few past tourneys. As long as we don’t pretend he actually won a contest, no one will make an issue of it.” Gloria thought for a minute. “That ought to provide enough back-story for a quick check. I doubt anyone will look at Huggins’ past history very closely. People over here won’t care. People over there—well—King Dafoe is really eager to get Jane married off.”

  “Huggins will adapt,” said Terry. “Life’s a stage, we all have our parts to play, and the role of a gentleman of leisure just suits him. Although . . .” He looked pensive.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “Ah, well, it’s just that . . . I don’t know.” Terry looked away, suddenly embarrassed that he was displaying too much emotion. “I mean, how many knights ever manage to slay a dragon? How many knights have ever even seen a dragon? And now that I’ve done it, I have to give the credit to someone else. My squire gets to be a hero. Of course,” he continued swiftly, afraid his mood might be misinterpreted, “it’s worth it for you, honey. But if you have to marry Roland anyway . . .”

  “You’re a hero to me, Terry.”

  “Aw, Gloria. You’re so sweet. That makes me feel totally pathetic.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gloria hugged him. “I know you really slew the dragon, sweetie. It was very noble of you to give up the credit. And we are getting married. Don’t worry about Roland. I have a plan.”

  She cast about for her cloak. Terry helped her arrange it over her shoulders. “Whatever you have is bound to turn out better than my dragon-slaying plan. What is it?”

  The Princess patted his hand. “I’ll tell you when the time is right. We’ll get married, and you’ll be a hero, too. Now you go off and report for duty tomorrow as though you were returning from a hunting trip. Wait for a message from me. And don’t worry about Roland.”

  Roland tried to look conservative. He had left his elegant silk shirts in the closet, choosing instead a more conventional shirt of ordinary white linen. He ignored his trendy brocaded jackets in favor of plain gray homespun. He left off all his jewelry and wore the same simple belt buckle and black boots that his father and uncles favored. He had even considered cutting his long hair, but eventually decided just to get it trimmed and tie it in a ponytail, which he then tucked under the back of his collar. He did his best to make a good impression, that of a serious, mature businessman, and now, sitting at the long conference table with his relatives, he realized that he had failed utterly.

  “Caraway seeds,” his Aunt Agatha was saying. She was the oldest of the dozen Westfield family members seated around the long conference table, three years older than her husband, and although everyone pretended not to know that, she led every meeting. Her voice was absolutely flat and expressionless, carrying no hint of the disdain that Roland knew she was feeling, the same disdain she showed for all his ideas. Of course, she had never actually flat-out rejected any of his ideas. She would say something like, “We find your ideas interesting,” or “We’ll consider your proposal carefully,” or sometimes just “I se
e.” This was going the same way.

  “Seeded rye bread,” said Roland brightly. He was trying to keep a positive tone, hoping the enthusiasm would be contagious, but a note of desperation was starting to creep into his voice. “The richness of rye bread blended with a subtle hint of caraway . . .”

  “Do people eat a lot of caraway seed, Roland?”

  “Not per se, no. But research shows that when mixed with rye dough . . .”

  “You seem to be doing a lot of research with seeds, Roland.” His Uncle Jeffrey flipped through a stack of old proposals that he had brought with him. All of them had been written by Roland, all had been rejected at previous meetings. “Poppy seeds on hard rolls, sesame seeds on buns, lemon muffins with . . .” He scanned the proposal. “Poppy seeds again.”

  “All those products did very well in the test markets,” said Roland. “As did these.” He had prepared sample loaves of bread, which were now sitting in covered baskets in the center of the conference table. None of the committee members had bothered to touch them.

  “And now rye bread with caraway seeds,” said Aunt Agatha. She poked at a basket, pushing it down the table, away from her. “Is there perhaps some reason for this obsession with seeds, Roland?”

  “The reason is sales,” said Roland. “Sales of sliced bread have been flat . . .” It was the wrong thing to say. Expressions hardened all around the table. His family was not prepared to face bad news. He tried to recover. “I’m just saying that the movement toward natural foods is growing. We need to give the health food people a product they can get behind. Seeds, nuts, berries, they love that stuff. By adding seeds to our products we can . . .”

  “I see,” said Aunt Agatha.

  “Roland,” interrupted his Uncle Stimson. “I hate to belabor the ludicrously obvious, but bread is made from seeds. That’s what flour is, finely ground seeds of wheat and rye. It doesn’t need more seeds.”

  “Although we do find your ideas interesting,” said Aunt Agatha.

  “Don’t be discouraged, Roland,” said Uncle Jeffrey. “You may rest assured that we’ll consider your proposal carefully. Now, to the next item of business.”

  And that was it. The conversation turned to pricing structures and the cost of flour. Roland collected his papers and departed the conference room. He left the baskets behind. His father excused himself from the group and followed him. At the end of the hallway he caught up with his son and put an arm around his shoulder. “Roland,” he said. “I want to tell you again how much I appreciate your efforts. We all appreciate your efforts.”

  “They don’t appreciate my efforts, Dad. They don’t even listen.”

  “It’s a complicated business, son. They’ve been at it all their lives. It takes time to earn their confidence.”

  We don’t have time, Roland thought. Not the way the sales of sliced bread are falling. We’ll be bankrupt in two years if this keeps on. He didn’t bother to say this. He had said it too many times already.

  His father seemed to read his thoughts. “I know, Roland. Sales will recover. We’ve been through down-turns before. Truthfully, the best thing you can do for the family right now is to go ahead with this marriage. A connection to the royal family will help business more than you can imagine. We’ve worked very hard on this, Roland, for a very long time. We’re counting on you to do your part.”

  “Do what part? Dad, I’m the groom. All I have to do is show up with a ring and a best man. The bride and her mother do all the work.” They left the building. It was still before noon, a cool, clear, crisp day, and traffic was heavy. They stood on the edge of the street, waiting for a space to clear among the wagons and rumbling carts.

  “That’s not true, Roland,” his father said, once they had crossed the street. “Don’t underestimate your role in this. The groom has a lot of important responsibilities. He has to—um—buy a ring, for example. And choose a best man. And then he has to—uh—show up. Okay, maybe he doesn’t have a lot of responsibilities, but they’re important responsibilities. In fact,” his father continued, warming to his theme, “showing up is really the key to the whole marriage ceremony.”

  “Yes, all right, fine,” said Roland. They stopped in front of a Westfield Bakery. It was one that Roland had been given personal charge of. “Ring, best man, show up. Got it. You can count on me, Dad. I won’t let the family down.”

  They exchanged pleasantries, then Roland went up the stairs to his office. Rows of books, covering all aspects of cookery, lined the walls. On one side of the door hung a painting of Agatha Teasdale, who was said to have invented the dumpling. The other side held a portrait of Primus Colazius, the philosopher who first postulated a connection between bacon and eggs. A small stove kept the room warm and held a teakettle. As a gentleman, he was forced to refrain from actually taking part in the baking process—the guilds would have a fit if he tried—but an office over a bakery gave him as much control as he could maintain over his test loaves. Even now, the room was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. Baskets of loaves—wheat, rye, honey nut oatmeal—awaited his approval. Stacks of carefully handwritten recipes stood on his desk, with notes written in both margins. He picked one up. It was a recipe for rye bread. The previous week he had scrawled across it with a charcoal stick, “a sure winner,” then added an exclamation mark and circled it. Now he snarled at the paper, tore it in half, and fed the pieces into the stove. With a sudden fury he grabbed the whole stack and dumped it into the stove, which only had the effect of nearly smothering the fire inside. He grabbed a bell off the bookcase and rang for his valet. “Neville,” he said when the man appeared, “you see all this bread?” Roland gestured at the baskets lining the wall.

  “Sire?”

  “Take it to the almshouse and tell them to give it to the poor.”

  “Yes, Sire. I will fetch a few of the delivery boys.”

  “Fine. And Neville?”

  “Sire?”

  “Man does not live by bread alone.”

  “No, Sire.”

  “Go to the market and buy some stuff to go with it. Fruit, cheese, pickles, you know what I mean. Take it all to the almshouse. There’s money in the cupboard.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  His valet left, closing the door quietly. A short time later a trio of delivery boys tiptoed in, collected the bread, and tiptoed out again. Roland sat at his desk with his head in his hands, watching the stove, seeing the tiny remaining flames lick at the paper. Before long the fire recovered, eating happily at two years of work. He went through the rest of the paper on his desk. The heavy marriage contract had arrived only a few days ago. He had set it aside to read later. It was wrapped in brown paper, bound with string, and sealed with the royal seal. He cut the string, unwrapped it—and once again set it aside to read later. He went through the latest invoices for the bakery and updated his ledger books. He riffled through a sheaf of marketing studies and added them to the stove. The dancing light did nothing to dispel his gloom. Presently he became aware of a commotion in the street. He went to the window, opened the sash, and looked down. People seemed to be gathering outside. Some seemed to be looking up at him. He frowned and closed the shutters. Before he could return to his chair, the door was flung open by his valet. “Sire!” the man said, a bit breathlessly. “The Princess Gloria has been kidnapped!”

  “Really?” Roland sat down, picked up an invoice, and studied it. It was from his glove maker. He would put it into a separate ledger, along with the bills from his hatter and his tailor. “Which one is the Princess Gloria? And why should I care?”

  “The oldest one, Sire.” His valet pointed to the contract on Roland’s desk. “And the one to whom you are engaged.”

  Roland looked at the first page of the contract and slapped the invoice down on top of it. “Oh, damn it to hell. That’s all we need right now.”

  Galloway IV, King of Medulla, stomped down the second-floor hallway of the east wing of Medulla Palace, a dirty scrap of foolscap scru
nched in one hand, the other hand clenched into a fist. The second floor of the east wing was where the royal family had their suites. The floor was carpeted, so stomping didn’t have quite the same effect as it did downstairs, but it was still enough to shake the paintings on the walls. The king was a big man. His purple robe, a color reserved for royalty in Medulla, swirled around him as he turned a corner. Underneath his official robes of office he wore flannel pajamas. He had been taking a nap when the news arrived.

  Hard on his heels were two of the palace guard—Terry was one of the pair—in thick wool uniforms, with breastplates and cut-and-thrust military swords. For safety’s sake they were supposed to precede the king and shelter him from danger, but that was difficult with Galloway, who had a tendency to change directions suddenly and without warning. Terry and the other guards usually found themselves scurrying after the king. Today was no exception.

  The guards were followed by a long, strung-out line of worried ministers, courtiers, aides, officers, and assistants. Periodically Galloway turned to them and yelled out things like, “What sort of hoax is this?” and “Bunch of damn nonsense,” while waving the paper for emphasis. His sycophants did not comment, and once he turned away, exchanged concerned looks. Terry, who was just as worried as any of the others, tried to conceal his feelings. He had his own note, tightly folded and tucked away in an inner pocket. It did not reassure him.

  The King reached a suite of rooms, gave the door three brisk knocks, and entered his daughter’s sitting room without listening for a reply. The room was filled with morning sun. An attractive girl was leaning back in the window seat, working on a very difficult cross-stitch. At Galloway’s entrance she came to her feet. She was tall, slim, had long blond hair, was primly clothed in a high-necked dress, and she listened respectfully when the king spoke.

  He waved the paper under her nose and shouted, “Now see here, Gloria.” Upon saying this, he decided that there was no need to shout at the girl, and modulated his voice. “Now see here, Gloria,” he repeated in a softer tone. “What’s all this folderol about being kidnapped? You’ve got your mother all upset, and the whole palace is in a tizzy. You know I take a very dim view of these kinds of pranks. Look at you. You’re almost a grown woman now. This sort of thing is beneath your dignity.”