The Princess and the Hound (11 page)

I
T WAS FAR TOO
early for the formal breakfast to be served in the morning chamber, but George’s stomach rumbled even after the early breakfast, and he went in search of the kitchen and food. On the way he bumped into Princess Beatrice turning a blind corner. They both were off balance, but Marit moved to Beatrice’s side, and she managed to avoid falling. George had no such luck.

“I am very sorry,” he said when he had righted himself again.

Beatrice pointed to a dusty streak down his side from where he had brushed against the floor, but George shrugged and ignored it. He was more interested in her.

She, however, was not similarly inclined. “If you don’t mind, I shall be on my way,” said Beatrice brusquely.

“Wait!” George called after her. He felt a sudden desperation to keep her by him. It was not at all what he
had thought he would feel for the princess. He had told himself he felt sorry for her, that she intrigued him. But it was more than that.

“Wait!” he called again, louder.

She stopped, and Marit stopped with her. “Yes?” She only half turned toward him.

Why was she so cold toward him? What had he done to deserve that?

He was supremely conscious of the irony in this change in his attitude. He had told his father it did not matter what Princess Beatrice looked like or what her character was. He would marry her regardless, and no need for intimacy—indeed no wish for it.

How he had changed.

Might she also change if he seemed worthy of it?

Well, he would try.

“It is only—I thought I was to come here to get to know you. But we have had only a moment or two to speak to each other. I feel we are nearly strangers still.” Surely there was a better way to say that he wanted to spend more time with her.

“You came to see me, to make sure I was neither too ugly nor too mad for you to marry. Well, now you have done that. I do not see why we must spend yet more time together.” Beatrice spoke rather coldly.

George was nonplussed. But really, why should he be? She only said aloud what was the blunt truth, what he had felt himself. An arranged marriage such as this was for their kingdoms, not for themselves. And if
George had changed his mind, why should she do the same?

“It is not about ‘must,’” said George cautiously. “It is only that I thought it would be pleasant. That is,” he added, as he saw her frown disapprovingly, “I had hoped that we might at least be acquainted with each other’s likes and dislikes. It would make for less friction in our marriage, don’t you agree?”

George spoke to her as he might have to a skittish squirrel in the forest, offering what he thought she wanted, proving himself no danger to her. Perhaps there was some reason for a prince to know the animal language after all.

“Less friction,” Beatrice echoed. “Perhaps.” She turned back to face him fully. He had her full attention now, and Marit’s. But he had not the faintest idea what to say.

Of course she would insist he begin. “What would you have me know about yourself then?” she asked.

George’s mind was blank. “Tell me about yourself first. What is your favorite color?” What a stupid thing to say. She would think him an idiot now. What did her favorite color matter to her?

On the other hand, every lady he had ever met had had a favorite color and had made a point of asking George what his was.

“Black,” said Beatrice, looking down at Marit.

“Ah,” said George. He should have guessed that.

Marit nudged Beatrice’s leg. “And your favorite
color?” she asked, as if prompted by her hound. As if Marit cared what George’s favorite color was.

George sighed. He was used to this question. “Green,” he said, for the main color of Kendel.

Beatrice nodded then. She looked bored. George did not blame her.

This time he thought wildly before he asked another question. He flashed over his memory of the dream the night before. “Have you played the game of kings before?”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “It is one of my father’s games,” she replied. “But I have never played it.”

He had brought up something painful for her, and he had not meant to.

Then Marit nudged at her and whined. Beatrice seemed reluctant, and it was almost as if the two were battling. At last Beatrice said, “I have watched him play many times, but I have never found anyone willing to play against me. We could find a well-used board in the drinking hall, by the fire. It may be noisy in there, for that is where the soldiers congregate. And because my father’s policy is to offer them as much beer as they wish, they do not have much self-control.”

Was it a test of some kind? She was watching him closely.

“That sounds fine,” said George. “I shall follow you there.”

She nodded, but it was Marit who led the way.

George thought of all the favorites he could have
asked Princess Beatrice about. Her favorite season of the year? Winter, spring, summer, fall? Her favorite flower? Her favorite dance?

It might be useful to know those things, for when she was his queen. But what did that tell him of who she was?

On the other hand, Elin, the cook, might very much have liked to know if the princess preferred her meat rare or well done and if she had a favorite pastry that could tempt her even when she was feeling ill.

They walked down to the drinking hall, which was loud and filled with the smell of strong drink, murky with smoke from the incense burners spaced throughout the chamber. And no one had bothered to open a window.

George’s eyes began to water as the door closed behind them, and his nose twitched with the desire to sneeze. He held it off, trying to prove that his self-control was as strong as hers.

And what of the game? Would she expect him to win? George was no expert at it, as he suspected her father was. He had played it against Sir Stephen, but he did not truly know if he was any good. Sir Stephen admitted it was not a hobby he thought much of, and everyone else George had tried to pit himself against let him win easily.

“I shall be black,” said Beatrice, seating herself at one side of the board.

George sat at the other side. He noticed that Beatrice
had maneuvered so that he had to stare out at the soldiers while she faced the stone wall.

“Your move first.” She prompted him.

George moved.

Beatrice copied him.

George moved again.

Beatrice did the exact same move, in mirror image.

George made a stupid move, just to see what she would do.

She had her hand lifted to do the same when she looked down to Marit. George was not sure what happened, but Beatrice moved her hand to another, more valuable player. George found himself in an unenviable position.

For the rest of the game George noticed subtle hints that Marit was guiding the princess, yet it was nothing he could point to definitively. Even if he could, what could he say? Demand that the hound be placed in another chamber because Beatrice was using her to cheat against him?

Finally, George sighed and tipped over his king to signal defeat. It was only then that he looked up and saw the audience of soldiers around him, now quiet and with full drinks in their hands. It was very warm, late into the afternoon. He was sweating profusely, and the soldiers were staring at him with wry grins on their faces.

He had embarrassed himself and his kingdom, being beaten like that. They all must see it that way, that he
was weak to let a woman beat him.

But he could not regret it.

He stood and bowed graciously. “I thank you for the privilege of playing against so fine an opponent.”

Beatrice nodded. Then, trailed by Marit, she walked with him to the door. They went on toward the stairs where they had met.

“You are angry,” Beatrice said.

“No,” said George.

“Men are always angry when they are beaten,” she said.

“Well, I am not like other men,” George replied.

“You would rather I had let you win.”

“No,” he said. He had had enough of that.

Beatrice was silent for a moment, her hand comfortably on Marit’s back.

George felt a pang of envy at that sign of closeness. If he had not been so hurt by his first attempt with Teeth, might he have something of what Marit and Beatrice now shared?

“My father says that the only true woman’s game is marriage,” Beatrice said.

“And is it a game?” asked George. “To you?”

“It is far more than a game to me and to Sarrey,” Beatrice said flatly.

“More than a game for both our kingdoms,” said George.

There was a long silence, and George had the feeling
that Beatrice expected him to leave. But he did not mind silence, not when it was full of the hope of something between them.

“My father has always thought that I was of no value to him or to the kingdom.”

George began to speak, to interrupt her, but she put up a hand, and he stopped himself.

“It is no secret that he wished for a son, to follow in his footsteps, to be a warrior as he was. And I could not be that son no matter how I tried.” Beatrice stroked Marit.

“But I have done the one thing that he was never able to do. In one swift movement, I have won him all of Kendel. Through marriage to you.”

George stared at her. Was that what the marriage was to her, a way to prove that she could succeed at something her father never had? He did not know whether to be affronted or impressed.

“I did not know that you were the one who had thought of the marriage,” said George. He had assumed the idea must have come from King Helm. Or if not from him directly, then from one of his advisers.

But of course that had been before he had met her. Or her father.

“Oh, I had to make sure that he believed it was his own idea,” said Beatrice. “He has been long looking for some way to rid himself of me to benefit himself.”

What did it mean that Beatrice had offered herself to
him sight unseen? That she was more courageous than he had realized? Or more cold and indifferent than he dared see?

“And so you win at last,” said George. “If not in one game, then in another.”

Marit whined, and Beatrice had to stroke her even more than before. “My father does not see it that way, however. There is only one kind of battle to him and only one honorable way of winning. How he hates that he and the soldiers he trained himself have become too old for war.”

George put his hand on top of Beatrice’s and felt the warmth of both the woman and her hound pulsing through his fingers. “Just because your father does not see your victory does not mean that it is none,” he said softly.

Beatrice’s eyes jerked up to his.

He wanted to touch her cheek, but there was something in her stance that warned him away. She was not ready for that. Not yet.

He would content himself with sharing her hound, if only for a moment.

“And just because he will not play the game of kings with you, that does not mean you would not beat him at every turn.”

Beatrice smiled at this, and George thought he could see something in Marit’s jawline that was like a smile as well.

Then he moved away and made his retreat.

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON
George was informed he was to meet with King Helm outside on the training grounds. George expected that King Helm would be showing off his best soldiers to warn George about the possibility of war beginning again at any moment.

But on the training ground, George remembered what Beatrice had said about her father’s being too old for war. King Helm’s grizzled beard was unkempt, and he wore a pair of leggings with holes at both knees and a short jacket over a top that showed the gray hair on his sagging chest.

It startled George to think that King Helm looked as old as his own father. But why should he not? The two kings had come to their crowns at nearly the same time, and had ruled for more than thirty years since then, including the ten-year war and the twenty years of unsettled peace.

Yet it seemed King Helm had to keep at something like war to be happy. Beside him was a row of weapons of various kinds, laid out carefully. They shone with oil, despite their obvious age.

King Helm turned toward George, looked him up and down, and handed him a padded tunic to put on over his own plain one. Then he looked at the weapons. “You’ll start with this,” he said, and handed George a wooden sword that looked as if it were made for a child. For himself, the king took only a long wooden staff.

He moved away from the weapons, out into the open ground of the field. Then he motioned at George. “Try me,” he said.

George stared at the sword. He knew what to do with it. It was not as if he had never had any training. But it had been an hour a day for a few years and never with any opponent except for the assistant swordmaster. King Davit had never been a man of war either. He had left the decisions of war to the lord general and visited the troops only after a battle.

King Helm had always led his troops himself. Though George did not like the man in many ways, he could not deny that he was courageous or that he was a true soldier.

He told himself that for the first time in his life he had a chance to truly test his skills. King Helm would not be likely to let him win. For that George should be grateful.

“Go on. Do your best. You won’t hurt me, I assure you,” said King Helm with a gleam in his eye.

Nonetheless George’s first stroke was tentative.

King Helm countered with a wave of his staff that took the wooden sword right out of George’s hands and left his arms stinging with the jolt of the blow.

George was winded, but King Helm looked as though he had just finished his dessert, a fluffy cream confection. And his smile was very satisfied.

“Try again,” said King Helm smugly.

George scrambled to get his sword, and this time he put all the power he could into his blow.

King Helm merely turned aside, and the force of George’s movement left him sprawling in the dirt.

George looked up to see a very broad smile on King Helm’s face. He gritted his teeth and went at it again. And again.

Until the sweat streaming down his face had soaked through the padding on his extra tunic and his legs were trembling with exhaustion.

“Two hours,” said King Helm, looking up at the sun. “Well, I suppose you’ll need some rest.”

“Thank you,” said George with as much dignity as he could manage. He stumbled away and leaned against the wall, nauseated and spent. But he couldn’t maintain even that position.

Slowly, and utterly without grace of movement, George slid down. He wanted to put his head on the
dirt, but he held it up. He gave himself some credit for that much, though he did not know if King Helm would.

“Here. Some ale,” said King Helm. He passed a skin to George, who opened the top and sipped at it.

Not too strong, and not sweet either. It seemed the perfect thing to restore his spirits. What he would have to do after his spirits were restored, he preferred not to think about just at the moment.

“So, you are no soldier,” said King Helm. He had knelt beside George—purely for George’s benefit, it was clear.

“No,” George said. Had that ever been in doubt?

“And you are no hunter either.”

“No,” George said again, his face turning red with embarrassment. Though he had claimed the bear his own quarry, he had let it go.

“What are you then?” asked King Helm. “What makes your people accept you as prince? Or your father as king?”

From anyone else, George would have been insulted at the question. From King Helm, it seemed reasonable. George sought to answer it fairly.

“He has a good mind,” said George judiciously. “And a good heart.”

“Good enough that his men are willing to die for him when he takes no risk of his own?”

“Yes,” said George. He had never thought of his father as a coward, though he had led no troops to war,
but clearly King Helm had.

“I have heard about his judgments.” King Helm waved a hand negligently. “Far easier to settle things by a match of strength.”

“Then the strongest always wins,” said George.

“Precisely,” said King Helm. “And a kingdom becomes very strong indeed when the weakest are winnowed out.”

George thought about this for a long while. He did not mean to say that King Helm’s way was wrong. But it was not his father’s way or his own. “Those who are weak can sometimes offer things that the strongest lack,” George said.

King Helm stared at him for a time. Then he said, “You truly believe that.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what then.”

Now George had to think of something concrete, not just the abstractness of right and wrong. He thought over his father’s judgments.

“A man came to my father once. He had a dispute with a neighbor, a man who was much stronger than he was. Both men claimed that they had invented a new mechanism to make mill grinding more efficient. My father had to decide which one it was.”

“And he decided it was the weaker man?” asked King Helm.

“Yes,” said George, “though not because he was weaker. Because he could explain how he came to the
invention, from another area of work entirely. From his work on trying to improve a plow, in fact.”

“And the advantage to your kingdom was what?”

“The following year the man invented a new mechanism for a cannon,” said George.

King Helm’s face suddenly drained of color and he sank closer to George’s position. “
That
cannon?” he asked.

George thought he must be remembering the rout that Sarrey experienced one year, a terrible loss of life, and even worse, an embarrassing end to King Helm’s best-trained men. George’s father had hoped it would be the end to all war between the two kingdoms, but the following year King Helm had found his own new cannon to use, and the war went on for two more years. All before George was even born, yet it was as real to him as if he had seen it himself.

“That cannon,” said George softly.

There was a long silence between them.

“Will you let me try you again?” asked George. It was the last thing he truly wanted, to be defeated yet again by King Helm. Still, he was determined to show that if he could not win, at least he would not give up. That he could do for his kingdom and for its future.

“You are ready?” King Helm looked skeptical.

“I am ready,” said George.

He ended another two hours later, badly bruised over his entire torso, worst on his back and arms. Yet
with each blow George thought that King Helm’s appreciation of him had grown. Not as a warrior but as a man…and a prince.

“Now it is time for dinner,” said King Helm with a faint smile.

“Good,” George said.

“Ha! That is what you think.”

It was a comment George did not understand until he was sitting in the high-backed chair at the table with dozens. His body ached worse now than it ever had while it was warm on the field. He did not know if he could even move his head, let alone his hands. To chew was agony. To speak clearly: impossible. And through it all he had to smile, as King Helm smiled, as Beatrice smiled. Ignoring it all.

Too old for a warrior? George only wished it were true.