The Princess and the Hound (13 page)

T
HE LAST NIGHT
that George was to be in Sarrey, King Helm invited a troupe of musicians in for dancing. Of course Beatrice and George were expected to lead.

George looked toward Beatrice and saw little interest in dancing before an audience, but duty called them both. He bowed to Beatrice. She looked to Marit, and George wondered for a moment if he would have two partners. But no, Beatrice came alone. She offered her hand, and George took it. As they stepped onto the open floor, the music began.

He bowed and motioned to the small open space available.

It was a languorous cat dance, which allowed the two of them to slide close enough to touch gently but never for long. George thought it strange that the hatred of animal magic remained so strong when so many dances were based on the movements of animals. Not all
of them wild animals, but still…

The second one was a faster dance of a hunt. First one of them, then the other was the prey and skittered away with the music. It was meant to be a playful dance, but George did not notice any pleasure on Beatrice’s face.

Then again, she did not smile often. In fact even the hound seemed freer in the castle than the princess was. Marit could move where she wished to go, could bark or express anger. Beatrice could not. Perhaps that made it impossible for her to feel happiness either.

Could he change that after their marriage? He promised himself that he would.

After a third dance, during which Beatrice stepped repeatedly on his toes, George pleaded exhaustion and sat. The truth was, she danced badly. George did not consider himself any more than proficient, but he had danced with some very graceful partners, and graceful Beatrice was not.

She was awkward, jerking this way and that. She remembered the steps. It was not that. It was that she seemed to have to think about them at every moment. They did not flow from her mind into her body. That consciousness was always a step behind the music.

George thought she was not even aware of how badly she danced, for she paid no attention to him at all, only to herself and what steps were coming next. She had no enjoyment in it, certainly.

Clearly dancing was not the thing to make her smile.

He couldn’t avoid it entirely at their wedding, but he might be able to make it less obvious that she was so graceless. Would it be better or worse if he paired her with superb dancers? Much worse. A bad partner would be ideal, for all of Beatrice’s mistakes could be blamed on someone else.

George had begun compiling a list of them in his head, beginning with Sir Stephen, when his attention was caught by one of the noblemen at King Helm’s side. George saw the man’s face go still, and then his hands went to his throat. Before they could reach it, his face turned very red, and he fell to the floor.

King Helm reacted quickly enough that the heavy man did not hit his head, while shouting for a physician. Two servants went running while the king shook the man and tried to get him to respond. He stirred as if in pain, but he did not revive. George thought the man’s color was getting worse, more gray than red now.

The musicians had stopped playing, and the whole room was silent.

“Can no one help him?” King Helm demanded. George was surprised to see this distress from the king, whom he had thought removed from emotions that drove normal men. But there must be real warmth between King Helm and Duke Marle, the fallen man.

Moved by pity, George went to Marle’s side and bent over him. “He is still breathing,” he said. But shallowly and not with regularity.

George peered to see if something was caught in the
man’s throat, but it seemed clear. “Perhaps turn him to his side, so he can breathe more easily.”

Immediately King Helm did as George suggested. George could not help wondering why the king could not show even a tenth of this feeling for his own daughter.

In a moment the duke seemed a little better. He breathed more deeply, then looked up and said the king’s name.

“Hush, my friend. Be still until the physician comes.” The king held tightly to Duke Marle’s hands.

Reassured, Marle closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

King Helm swore violently. “Where is the physician? If he is not here before Marle is dead, I swear I will boil the man in his own medicines and feed him to the pigs for their supper.”

The physician came at that very moment. He was young and thin and utterly unsure of himself. His hands trembled, and his knees knocked together.

“Your Majesty?” he said.

“Don’t speak to me. He’s the man who needs you,” growled King Helm, gesturing emphatically to Duke Marle.

The physician knelt down and said exactly what George had: “He is breathing.”

“I know that. What is wrong with him? Why did he fall? And what can you do to make him better?”

The physician swallowed hard. “It might be…an
ache in the heart. Or an imbalance of the liver.”

“I do not care what it might be. It
might
be that I poisoned him myself, but that is not what it is. Tell me what it
is
, you fool.”

“Your Majesty, if only Dr. Rhuul were here, he would be able to do more.”

Out of the corner of his eye George noticed that Marit had twitched at the mention of the other physician’s name and Beatrice had gone as gray as Marle himself. Whatever anyone else thought about the physician, it was clear that Beatrice and Marit considered him no friend.

“Dr. Rhuul, the foul-scented fool, is not here, and you are. Or do you wish to be sent to find him…less two eyes and a leg?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the young physician.

“Then tell me, what does Marle need?”

The young physician closed his eyes, then said, “Cool water, as much as he will drink. And a draft that I will send in but a few moments, for a man who has had an ache of the heart. I am sure it is no more than that, Your Majesty, for Duke Marle is of an age, and he is—”

The physician looked at the king and seemed to realize any comment he made on Duke Marle’s size and tendency to indulge would reflect on the king as well. Instead, he coughed politely into his hand and said, “Give me time to go to my chamber, and I shall bring the draft back with me.”

“Do not ask me for time,” said King Helm. “Ask it of fate, for if he lives, then so do you.”

The physician, in fear, did not move for a moment.

“Go, go!” King Helm shouted. “If you had been wise, you would have brought the draft with you when you came. Dr. Rhuul would have certainly.”

“We all wish that Dr. Rhuul had not left us so suddenly last year,” said the young physician softly. “He could diagnose any illness and predict some besides.”

Predict them? George wondered at that phrase. It seemed ominous, though no one else remarked on it.

The physician scurried away, and King Helm sent one of the servants after him with a snap of his fingers.

“Water,” the king commanded of his servants. They brought him a carafe.

King Helm poured it slowly into his friend’s mouth. Marle licked his lips and swallowed once, then twice. He coughed suddenly, then jerked upright.

His color was improved.

“I suppose now that you will tell me it was all a farce. A terrible farce it was too for me to think of the loss of the only man who dares slice me on the practice field.”

Duke Marle gave a faint smile.

George eased away from the two of them and toward Beatrice. He touched her arm. She did not resist him, but as soon as he let go, it fell back to her side. She was cold as stone.

“Who is Dr. Rhuul?” whispered George. His mind had twisted around the thought of the foul scent King Helm had spoken of. And predicting illness? Or creating it?

It made George think of Dr. Gharn’s foul smell, and his unfortunate arrival just before the king fell ill.

George kept looking at Beatrice and Marit.

The princess said nothing, but the hound whined at him mournfully. They knew something about Dr. Rhuul, but how could he find out?

The young physician came racing back with his draft. Duke Marle drank it with a sour face. Then he threw it back up.

“You fool! I’ll have your toes for this!” exclaimed King Helm.

“No, Your Majesty. It was supposed to do that. He will be better now. Ask him. Look at him. You’ll see.” The young physician’s teeth chattered.

It was true. Duke Marle looked much better. He got to his feet and wiped his mouth. “What foul stuff that was.”

“It has thinned his blood so that it can return to his heart. But he should be careful that he does not eat so much rich food, Your Majesty. And gets a little more gentle exercise. Walking perhaps.” He bowed his head, as though he did not expect these recommendations to be accepted.

King Helm seemed chastened. “Is there anything else that needs to be done for him,” he asked, “as he recovers himself?”

“Perhaps a little clear broth and bread for the next two days,” was the response. “To clean out his stomach and purify his blood.”

King Helm grunted at this, but he did not reject it. Then he looked to his friend and said, “Do you hear that? Mind you obey him as if your king had spoken.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Marle hoarsely.

It was a miserable end to the dinner and to George’s last day with Beatrice. He had no chance to speak to her again, but he told himself that Dr. Rhuul—whoever he was—did not matter now. He would let it go. There were greater things to be considered here and now.

“Your Highness, is there any way I can help you?” asked Henry when they were at the door to his bedchamber.

“Do I look so bad as that?” George asked.

“Your Highness, you look tired.”

“Tired I can manage alone,” George said curtly.

Henry looked away, and George realized he had hurt him. That is what came of not having had experience in friendship. George did not know what was expected of him, so he would always be hurting people inadvertently, he supposed.

After a moment’s hesitation he opened the door to his bedchamber and called Henry to him. “If you would get me a cup of hot tea,” he asked, more because he wanted to give Henry some way to feel useful than because he wanted the tea.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Henry seemed eager to help.

When the tea came, George was still sitting on his bed, fully clothed. The taste was better than he had anticipated and filled him with warmth. He lay back
when it was done and eased off his shoes.

He had forgotten entirely that Henry was still there, that he had not dismissed him properly, when Henry asked, “Is there anything else, Your Highness?”

George’s first impulse was to say no, that he wanted to be left alone now. But then the back of his mind niggled at him. “Find out what you can about Dr. Rhuul,” said George.

“Who?”

“Dr. Rhuul. The old physician to the king. Find out who he was and where he has gone. If you can, before we leave in the morning. If you can give me a description of him as well, that would be useful.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said Henry. He looked as if he wanted to ask why, but then chose not to.

Not when it was the prince asking. No doubt he thought the prince must have some good reason for it.

Henry would likely spend all night on this mission and leave for Kendel in the morning swaying on his feet. But George had to know the truth of Dr. Gharn.

That night he did not dream much, only snatches here and there. But he saw one face more than once. That face stood over a hound and a woman with a sinister expression on his face.

It was the lined face of a man of less than average height, very plain features. He might have been a thousand men, George thought. He was the kind of man you forgot easily.

Except for his smell.

O
N THE JOURNEY HOME
to Kendel, George found himself thinking more and more about Dr. Gharn. He had never thought twice about the new castle physician before, but now…He wished more than once that he could bring Henry into his carriage with him to ask what he had discovered about Dr. Rhuul from those he had spoken to in King Helm’s castle. Anything at all?

Near the end of the day, the carriage arrived home at last, and George alighted within sight of Henry. But just as he thought he would have a chance to ask the guard for a private conference, Sir Stephen stepped forward with a grave expression.

“What is it?” George asked breathlessly. He looked about. Was it his father?

“I wanted to ask how it had gone, that is all,” said Sir Stephen. “Did you find Princess Beatrice as you expected?”

George spoke absently. “She was not as I expected.”

Sir Stephen blinked rapidly, usually a sign that he was about to start on a long lecture.

George wished he could see Henry. Where had he gone? His horse was missing too. All the guards had already taken their mounts to the stables to be rubbed down.

“Were you pleased by her then?” Sir Stephen asked.

“Yes, I was,” George replied. Then, finding himself warming to the subject of Beatrice, he added, “Sir Stephen, she is a woman unlike any other.”

Sir Stephen’s eyebrows rose. “You remind me of myself when I spoke of another woman…long ago,” he said quietly.

George was nearly tempted into a longer discussion with Sir Stephen on the topic of love and duty. But first he wanted to see his father. Since Henry had disappeared, perhaps the king would be able to tell George about Dr. Gharn.

He gave his regrets to Sir Stephen, then hurried inside and bounded up the stairs.

Four-fingered Jack was waiting at the top. Inside, King Davit was sitting up, and his color was good. He smiled at the sight of George and gestured him to sit in the chair at his side.

George felt all his anxiety about Dr. Gharn and his father melt away. The foul scent must have been a coincidence. There was no sign of mischief here.

“You look very like your mother today,” said King Davit.

George breathed deeply and settled himself. His father could not have known how much the words set his heart at ease. “And you seem…better.”

His father stretched. “I think that Dr. Gharn must have found the cure at last. He has not been by in several days to check on me, but I believe when he comes, he must tell me that I will be able to go walking in a week or two.

“But I should not trouble you with that. I’m sure you are eager to share your thoughts about the princess with me. How did you find her? I expected resignation or coldness of heart, not the heat and eagerness I see before me now.” His father smiled as if he had engineered it all himself. Perhaps he had.

George tried to think how to put Princess Beatrice and Marit into words. Finally, he said, “She knows I have animal magic.”

He had not expected his father to start so. King Davit put a hand to his heart and went suddenly pale. “And do you trust her with that?”

“Yes,” said George. “Absolutely.” He had thought that was understood. If not, he would be telling of something else entirely, the beginnings of a new war.

“Good,” said his father with relief.

At that moment Dr. Gharn interrupted them with a knock at the open door. “Your Highness, Your Majesty.” He bowed.

The physician’s face showed no sinister feeling. But like the man in the dream, he had unremarkable features. He had light brown hair and was of medium height and build, with eyes that seemed between blue and green. He walked lightly, as if to leave no mark behind him.

George felt confused. The physician did not make him feel at ease, and the smell—the smell was foul indeed. It made George want to turn away at every moment. Could it be meant to do that?

“How is my father?” George asked. “He says he feels very well today. Perhaps he will be ready to get out of bed soon.”

“Oh?” Dr. Gharn came closer. He looked in King Davit’s eyes and had him open his mouth to examine his throat. “Well,” he said, “yes, I see why you would think you are better.”

“Think I am better?” echoed King Davit.

Dr. Gharn opened his bag and laid out a small vial of elixir. “Yes. There are many who are afflicted as you are who have periods of near recovery and then relapse. Those who are tempted to do more than they ought relapse the worst. The others…do better.”

“It is false, then, the sense that he is better?” George asked.

“Very false…and very dangerous, I am afraid,” said Dr. Gharn.

“I suppose I am to take more of this then?” asked King Davit. “And feel as sick as ever when I do so.”

“I know you do not care for the flavor,” said Dr. Gharn. “And it may cause your stomach to be upset for a few hours, but it is all to the good. It is a purgative, you see. It will help ease the illness out of your body. As much as can be, that is.”

“Ah.” George reached for the vial and lifted it to the light. It was the same black stuff his father had been taking for months.

“Dr. Gharn, may I ask you a question?” George asked, probing.

“Of course.” Dr. Gharn still looked not directly at him but at a place beyond George’s shoulder.

“Do you believe that my father will ever be completely cured of his illness?”

“Well…” The physician hesitated. “That is very difficult to say. I do not claim to produce miracles, but I think I have shown enough of my powers not to be doubted at this point.”

In fact George remembered the way the whole castle had been abuzz at the first appearance of Dr. Gharn. He had come without any letters of recommendation, without any personal tales. Yet within a few days there were dozens of stories of those he had healed. So of course when the king had a touch of stomachache, Dr. Gharn had been called in. And steadily the king had gotten worse, but never alarmingly so. Until now.

“But you have seen others with this same malady who have gone on to be fully well again? With your treatment, of course?”

Dr. Gharn turned to the side. When he answered, his voice was low and almost apologetic. “I have not treated a case as bad as your father’s ever in my life. I am sorry to say that I cannot predict its end with any certainty.”

This did not inspire George with any confidence. “And if my father refused your treatment? What then?”

“George—” King Davit tried to stop him.

But George was insistent. “What would happen to the king if you were no longer here to treat him?”

“I would not recommend that,” said Dr. Gharn. “Not at all. Your Majesty—”

“George, what has gotten into you?” King Davit reached once more for the elixir.

George snatched it away. “What is in this elixir?” he demanded.

“I do not reveal my secrets to such as you,” said Dr. Gharn stiffly.

Without a hint of what he meant to do, George dropped the elixir on the floor. The glass vial shattered, spilling the black liquid everywhere. If George had expected it to hiss or burn into the stone, however, he was disappointed.

“What have you done?” Dr. Gharn turned to the king. “Your Majesty.”

“George, make your apology to Dr. Gharn immediately.”

George, feeling utterly the fool, made a quick apology.

“I will get another vial, Your Majesty. Luckily, I made two up in my chamber this very day.” Dr. Gharn gave a last look at George as he left.

“George, what is wrong with you?

George hesitated, then said, “I do not trust the man.”

“Why not? And why so suddenly?”

“What do we know about him? Where does he come from? Why have you become more ill with his treatment?”

“Some illnesses cannot be cured,” said King Davit, resigned.

“Father: After his medicines, do you feel better or worse?”

King Davit wrinkled his forehead in thought. “I hate the elixir,” he said. “But it is as he said: It makes me sick to make me better.”

“And you believe that?” George asked.

“Why should I not? When you were a boy, do you remember when your mother would make you eat greens fried with mushrooms?” he asked, his eyes bright.

“Yes,” said George.

“You hated them, but she insisted you eat them. She said they would make you healthy and strong.”

“She said that.” George still disliked greens in any dish.

“But you did not like to eat them. You would hold your stomach for hours afterward and say that it hurt,
that it was her fault that you hurt.”

But Dr. Gharn was not his mother, George thought. And his father was not a child.

“Leave Dr. Gharn be. He is not an open man, I know, and there is little to like about him. But he is a fine physician.”

What could George say to that?

He was about to leave, then turned back to his father with a wry expression. “You never made me eat greens after my mother was dead,” he said.

His father shook his head. A cloud passed over his face, and George regretted having said anything. He had not meant a criticism.

“No,” said King Davit. “I couldn’t bear to do it. I was not a very good physician to you, I suppose. It was all I could do to be a father, and perhaps I was not so very good at that either.”