Master Thaddeus put coins in his hand. ‘Wish I’d made him a helmet,’ he said. ‘Where’d the thought of a dragon come from?’
Harndon Palace – the Queen
Desiderata sat primly on an ivory stool in the great hall, its stucco walls lined with the trophies taken by a thousand brave knights – the heads of creatures greater and smaller, and a very young dragon’s head, fully the size of a horse, filling the northern wall beneath the stained glass window like a boat hull protruding from the sea. To her, it never quite looked the same way twice, that dragon – but it was huge.
She sat peeling a winter apple with a silver knife. Her hair was a halo of brown and red and gold around her – a carefully planned effect, as she sat in the pool of light thrown by the king’s beloved rose window. Her ladies sat around her, skirts spread like pressed flowers on the clean checkerboard marble floor, and a dozen of the younger knights – the very ones who should have been tilting in the tilt yard, or crossing swords with the masters – lounged against the walls. One, the eldest of them by half a dozen years and some fighting, was called ‘Hard Hands’ for his well-known feat of killing a creature of the Wild with a single blow of his fist. It was a story he often told.
The Queen disliked men who boasted. She made it her business to know who was worthy and who was not – indeed, she viewed it as her sacred role. She loved to find the shy ones – the brave men who told no one of their deeds. She thought less of the braggarts. Especially when they sat in her hall and flirted with her ladies. She had just determined to punish the man when the king came in.
He was plainly dressed, in arming clothes, he smelled like horses and armour and sweat, and she wrapped herself around him and his smell as if they were newly wed. He smiled down into her face and kissed her nose.
‘I love it when you do that,’ he said.
‘You should practise your tilting more often, then,’ she said, holding his arm. Behind the king, Ser Driant stood rubbing his neck, and behind him, Ser Alan, and the constable, Lord Glendower. She laughed. ‘Did you defeat these poor knights?’
‘Defeat?’ asked Driant. He laughed ruefully. ‘I was crushed like a bug in an avalanche, my lady. His Grace has a new horse that’s bigger than a dragon.’
Ser Alan shrugged. ‘I was unhorsed, yes, lady.’ He looked at Ser Driant and frowned. ‘I think it rude to suggest the king’s horse rolled you on the sand,’ he said.
Driant laughed again. He was not a man who stayed downcast for long. ‘There’s a great deal of me to hit the ground,’ he said, ‘and that ground is still frozen.’ He rubbed his neck again, peering past the Queen to her ladies sitting with their knights. ‘And you lads – where were you when the blows were being dealt and received?’
Hard Hands nodded appreciatively. ‘Right here in the warm hall, basking in the beauty of the Queen and all these fair flowers,’ he said. ‘What man goes voluntarily to fight on frozen ground?’
The king frowned. ‘A man preparing for war?’ he asked quietly.
Hard Hands looked about him for support. He’d mistaken the bantering tone of conversation for permission to banter with the king.
The Queen smiled to see him humbled so swiftly.
‘Out beyond the walls are creatures who would crack your armour to eat what lies within – or to drink your soul,’ said the king, and his voice rang through the hall as he walked beneath the rows of heads. ‘And alone of these fair flowers, Ser knight, you know the truth of what I say. You have faced the Wild.’ The king was not the tallest man in the room or the handsomest. But when he spoke like this, no other man could compare.
Hard Hands looked at the floor and bit his lip in frustration. ‘I sought only to entertain, Sire. I beg your pardon.’
‘Seek my pardon in the Wild,’ the king said. ‘Bring me three heads and I will be content to watch you flirt with the Queen’s ladies. Bring me five heads and you may flirt with the Queen.’
If you dare, she thought.
The king grinned, stopped by the younger man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Hard Hands stiffened.
He did not want to leave the court. It was plain to see.
The king put his lips close to Hard Hand’s ear, but the Queen heard his words. She always did.
‘Three heads,’ the king whispered through the smile on his lips. ‘Or you will stay in your castle and be branded faithless and craven.’
The Queen watched the effect on her ladies and held her peace. Hard Hands was quite a popular man. Lady Mary, who was known as ‘Hard Heart’ had been heard to say that perhaps his hands were not so very hard, after all. Seated nearest to the Queen, she pursed her lips and set her mouth, determined not to show the Queen her hurt. Behind this vignette, the king waved to his squires and set off up the main stairs to his arming room.
When the king was gone, Desiderata sat back down on her stool and picked up her sewing – an arming shirt for the king. Her ladies gathered round. They felt her desire and closed themselves against the younger knights, who looked to Hard Hands for leadership. Or had. Now they were disconsolate at losing their leader. They left with the sort of loud demonstration that young men make when socially disadvantaged, and the Queen laughed.
Hard Hands stopped in the arch of the main door and looked back. He met her eye, and his anger carried clearly across the sun beams that separated them.
‘I will come back!’ he shouted.
The other young men looked afraid at his outburst, and pushed him out the door.
‘Perhaps,’ purred the Queen. She smiled, much like a cat with a tiny piece of tail sticking out between its teeth.
The ladies knew that smile. They were silent, and the wisest hung their heads in real, or well-feigned, contrition, but she saw through all of them.
‘Mary,’ said the Queen gently. ‘Did you let Hard Hands into your bed?’
Mary, sometimes called Hard Heart, met her eye. ‘Yes, my lady.’
The Queen nodded. ‘Was he worthy?’ she asked. ‘Answer me true.’
Mary bit her lip. ‘Not today, my lady.’
‘Perhaps not ever – eh? Listen, all of you,’ she said, and she bent her head to her ladies. ‘Emmota – you are latest amongst us. By what signs do you know a knight worthy to be your lover?’
Emmota was not yet fully grown to her womanhood – fourteen years old. Her face was narrow without being pinched and a clear intelligence shone in her eyes. She was nothing next to the Queen, and yet, the Queen admitted to herself, the girl had something.
But in this instant, her wits deserted her, and she blushed and said nothing.
The Queen smiled at her, as she was always tender for the lost and the confounded. ‘Listen, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Love only those worthy of your love. Love those who love themselves, and love all around them. Love the best – the best in arms, the first in the hall, the finest harpist, and the best chess player. Love no man for what he owns, but only for what he does.’
She smiled at all of them. And then pounced. ‘Are you pregnant, Mary?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I did not allow him that liberty, my lady.’
The Queen reached out and took Mary’s hand. ‘Well done. Ladies, remember – we award our love to those who deserve us. And our bodies are an even greater prize than our love – especially to the young.’ She looked at each in turn. ‘Who does not yearn for the strong yet tender embrace? Who does not sigh for skin soft as fine leather over muscles as hard as wood? But get with child-’ she locked eyes with Mary, ‘-and they will call you a whore. And you may die, bearing that bastard. Or worse, perhaps; find yourself living meanly, rearing his bastard child, while he rides to glory.’ She looked at the window. ‘If you are not locked away in a convent.’
Emmota raised her head. ‘But what of love?’ she asked.
‘Make your love a reward, not a raw emotion,’ the Queen said. ‘Any two rutting animals feel the emotion, child. Here, we are only interested in what is best. Rutting is not best. Do you understand?’