The Princess and the Hound (8 page)

A
BAD HEADACHE BEGAN
to tug at George that evening in the carriage. He thought it might be the aftereffect of the stressful situation or the lack of fresh air and the closeness of the carriage.

To combat the discomfort, George ordered the windows open and the curtains closed. He put his hands to his ears to keep all noise out, and he laid out a very large pillow to cushion the jolting stops in the road.

But the headache was relentless, and it was not long before George admitted to himself that this was no ordinary headache, to be cured with tea and sleep. This was a magical headache, one that would lead to a raging fever if it was not treated soon.

George had been willfully neglecting his magic and had known he was pressing his time limit. He kept thinking that he would have time to go into the woods to relieve it or at least spend some time in the stables. But
he had been so busy. There had been so much to do, and his father’s poor health always worrying at him added to his duties. Perhaps there had even been some of the stubbornness that his mother must have shared with her horses. He had not wanted to admit that he needed animals or their magic.

Idiocy.

As if he had not proved this to himself time and time again. There was no escaping the demands of the animal magic. Why would he try such a thing at a time like this?

The headache would only get worse the longer he spent indoors. After that the fever. Perhaps then convulsions. At least there were stories that said such things happened to those with animal magic.

What could he do now? Could he find a way to sneak out to a forest near the castle here in Sarrey? It was the best he could hope for.

He rubbed at his head for the remainder of the miserable journey, and then the carriage stopped at last. Warily he stared at the lights of the castle courtyard all around them. It was hours past dark now, and he sincerely hoped that Princess Beatrice was long in bed. He did not trust himself to speak to her for the first time tonight, for fear he would growl at her—and not necessarily in any human language.

Stumbling out of the carriage, George was caught by an arm that wrapped around his chest, holding him upright.

“I’ll make sure you get inside to your chambers, Your Highness,” said Henry’s calm voice.

Shaking with the effects of the headache, George let him.

They made their way upstairs, through a corridor, and up another set of stairs, to a large and drafty chamber with a bed twice as soft as George thought he could possibly sleep in. This was what King Helm thought of the prince of Kendel, George thought. If he had not been so ill, perhaps it would have made him angry.

George looked at Henry, wondering why the guard had not yet left him on his own. Was he trying to find favor with the prince, perhaps even hoping to be appointed some kind of valet? It would not happen, for George had always hated keeping servants too close to him. He feared what they would learn about him and so had always managed alone.

“You may go, Henry,” he said, knowing that he must sound supercilious and ungrateful.

Henry went.

George stared around the huge chamber, decorated in light shades of blue and purple—not quite feminine but not very masculine either. No doubt it was King Helm’s idea of a little joke. George would try not to give any idea he had noticed it.

His chests had been brought in already, somehow even before he himself had arrived. He considered briefly the thought of changing into his bedclothes, then
gave it up. He pushed the voluminous blankets aside as best he could and fell asleep.

His rest was far from peaceful. He dreamed of a new animal, a huge wolflike creature that came to his room and watched him while he slept. When he opened his eyes, his headache was suddenly so loud that it felt as if it would take his head off. He did not know if he could stave it off another minute, let alone another day. And once the fever struck, he would be that much more vulnerable.

There was a roaring fire in the hearth, despite the warmth of the spring morning. Another dig from King Helm at the strength of Kendel’s prince?

He got out of his bed and, breathing shallowly, careened toward the window. He opened it, took several deep breaths, and began to feel a little better. A very little.

He stared at his unopened trunks, and knew he could not face anything so human right now. He needed to be outside, with the animals. It was so early he might be able to escape unnoticed. At least he hoped so.

He did not think that King Helm would have planned any important meetings for this first day, certainly not at this hour. If he thought George was so weak as to need a fire, then he would surely give him time to recover from his journey. No one would miss him if he went out for a long walk.

When George reached the bottom of the stairs, he
saw a maidservant laden with towels. Turning his head, he tried to look inconspicuous. Why should she imagine that a prince would appear in rumpled clothes at this hour of the morning? In any case, she did not look at him twice.

George had little trouble finding his way to the kitchen and out to the yard beyond. He walked for several yards, to make sure that no one would think he was running away. Then he let himself go. He felt his blood pumping freely, the ground pounding against his bare feet, and the stretch of muscles that had been too long kept tightly fettered.

He stopped short at the sight of a woman with streaming red hair coming toward the castle with a wild hound at her side. If George was not mistaken, it was the same wild hound he had dreamed about the night before.

But who was the woman? Her face wore a strangely distant expression. There was some old hurt in her, but from the way she held her head, she seemed used to pride. Her clothing was as rumpled as George’s. The dress was cut with feminine frills that seemed entirely out of place on her. Yet she was beautiful, in a sharp and startling way.

He stared at her as she came closer.

She stopped when she came to him, then stared back unabashedly. “Prince George,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice.

How had she guessed who he was?

Then it came to him, and he flushed with embarrassment.

“Princess Beatrice,” he said with a nod. How could it have taken him so long to recognize her? The hound should have been a giveaway from the first moment. But the dream had confused him. The wolfish hound in his dream had been no pet.

The woman looked down at her hound, as if to see herself in those deep brown eyes. Then she nodded and said, “Yes. I am Princess Beatrice.”

She was as tall as George, long and lean and muscular, with a regal neck and calloused tapering fingers. Her skin was badly freckled, but it complemented her flame red hair perfectly, and her hazel eyes shone up at him.

She spoke baldly. “You are not what I expected.”

What had she been told of him? Not likely flattering, considering the accommodations in his bedchamber.

But then again, had the descriptions he had heard of her been any better?

They stared at each other some more. The hound came forward and sniffed at George’s leg, then circled it gently, testing.

George bent down and offered his hand. The hound rubbed her nose over it, then licked at the places between George’s fingers. When she was done, she stepped back to her place at her mistress’s side.

George could not help staring at the hound for a moment, as long as he had looked at Beatrice—or longer. She had a look of wildness that was unmistakable. Her eyes were dark and deep. Her nose was long and sharp; her jaw was sharply cut underneath. Her hair was short and so black it seemed to glow in the snatches of sunlight that hit her. Her legs were long and lean, agile and steady. George wished right then that he could go running a race with her.

The headache that had been with him since the night before dulled a bit just at the sight of her, and he itched to try out the language he had learned from his pup. But of course he could not.

How was it possible for Princess Beatrice to keep a hound so close to her yet never tame it?

Or was he wrong? Was the hound no more than any other hound?

He turned his eyes back to the princess, suddenly realizing she would likely be offended by his long perusal of her hound instead of herself. But he could see no sign of disapproval or envy in her eyes. Another surprise in her, that lack of vanity. She was as captivated by her hound’s beauty as George was, it seemed.

Yet she did not have the animal magic. For some reason, George was instantly sure of that. She was too open about her bond to her hound. No one who truly feared discovery could be like that, in either Kendel or Sarrey. And there was something else, something in the air that
George was sure he would have felt had she had the animal magic. He had felt it when his mother had been with him. And the man on the journey here: George had felt it then too. A similarity. A shared appreciation. A joined sensory experience.

She did not have it.

“Shall I walk you back to the palace?” he asked, pushing away the strangely decreasing headache and the demands it implied. He held out his arm.

Again, the princess looked down at the hound. Then she nodded. “If you wish it,” she said.

George felt her hand rest on his. It was warm and slightly moist with her exertions in the woods, whatever they were. She did not appear to have gone out hunting. And if she did not speak with animals, then why was she here at this hour of the day—alone?

“Do you take walks often outside the castle?” asked George.

“Every day,” said the princess coolly. “It is good exercise,” she added after a moment.

“Yes.” George was annoyed to think that he was reduced to these inanities. Yet what else could he say? This princess was not at all as he had expected her to be.

“Is that why you came out as well?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said George. Did he sound as much like an idiot as he felt?
Focus on the hound,
he told himself.

“Will you tell me your hound’s name?” he tried. “She
is a wonderful creature.”

“Her name is Marit,” said Beatrice.

“Marit.” George nodded. “And how long have you had her?”

“Had her?” echoed Beatrice distastefully. “We met five years ago, in the woods. We have been together ever since.”

That would be a story worth hearing, thought George. But they had reached the outer courtyard that led to the kitchen. George moved toward the kitchen. When he reached the archway that led inside, he turned back and found Beatrice and the hound gone without a trace.

They had met in the woods, he thought, turning the words over in his mind as he wondered at the nearly dissipated headache. As if she were speaking of another person and not an animal at all.

G
EORGE NURSED HIS
headache the rest of the day, but it did not go away. It tugged at George as if in waves. Always before it had grown worse and worse, until he could not bear it any longer. But now it was conquerable, and George took some pride in his own strength that he could do that. Perhaps as he grew older, the magic could be tamed. George hoped for that, though to do it, he had to push his mother’s death out of his mind.

He spent the afternoon listening to the wealthy merchants at court complain about the taxes imposed on goods traded from Sarrey to Kendel’s merchants. Sir Stephen would be better at this, he knew. In the end George agreed to take down some names and accept further communication on the subject. It seemed no more was required. Later, he had a moment to himself in his chamber, opening the window to breathe fresh air
and wincing as he did so because the headache had come back full force.

George had not seen a glimpse of King Helm himself, nor had he been officially introduced to his bride-to-be. He puzzled over this, wondering if he should come to any conclusion on the long-term effects of this marriage. Surely King Helm would not marry his daughter away for nothing.

A knock at his door.

George rubbed his temples, put on a pleasant expression, and went down to dinner.

He saw Beatrice first, standing as he entered the dining hall and greeting him with a few formal words, her hound close by her side. She wore a blue gown that should have made her face come alive but instead emphasized her distant expression. Her movements seemed uncomfortable, and it was impossible to guess at what lay beneath the obvious expression of love for her hound, which anyone could see.

King Helm was a hulking man, with hair and a beard streaked with gray and a hint of what might once have been red, like Beatrice’s. He wore a heavy gold crown and seemed too large for the table. George had the impression that he would have been happier to eat with his soldiers in the woods than here.

How would it have been for Beatrice to grow up with such a man for a father? George knew her mother had been dead since her birth, and King Helm had
remarried twice in an attempt to get an heir. Both those women had died in childbirth along with their infant sons. Now Beatrice was the only heir remaining to King Helm, yet the way they sat together reminded George of the way things had once been with his father.

The entire dinner was spent in small talk, introducing George to various nobles of Sarrey. King Helm did not mention his daughter or invite her to speak. Indeed it was as if Beatrice herself were invisible. No, worse than that. It was as if she were a painting of a woman, meant to be seen and admired, but no more.

When the food was cleared, King Helm clapped his hands for wine, turned to George, and toasted him. “To Prince George and to Kendel.”

George drank. Then it was his turn to offer a toast. He raised his glass and gestured to Beatrice. “To Princess Beatrice,” he said stoutly.

King Helm laughed aloud.

Beatrice stared down at her untouched glass.

And George was left wondering how anyone could believe that Beatrice was not worthy of a toast.

As if in explanation, King Helm told George a story about Beatrice when she was three years old. “She was a spry little thing,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement.

George tensed at the thought that Beatrice would be hurt once more. But this was not his court. He had no power here.

“I told her one day I was going out hunting.” King Helm patted his stomach, and there were flickers of laughter about the hall. George could only guess that the courtiers were used to this treatment of the princess and knew that the king would reward them for their enjoyment.

A nod to Beatrice, who held absolutely still. “She said she would come with me. She insisted on it. She stamped her little foot at me.”

He pointed down to her toes as if she were a child yet.

Then he straightened his shoulders. “But I sent her back to the nursery, where she belonged, and told her to play with her dolls instead. As everyone knows, a female on a hunt is a distraction at the best and bad luck at the worst.”

Murmurs of agreement.

Which explained why Beatrice went out into the woods with her hound alone, George thought. She looked now as though she had gone to some other place inside herself, a place where she could not hear her father’s words and thus could not be hurt by them. George wondered how often she was forced to go to that place.

“Her mother was so beautiful, you know.” King Helm went on. “None of my other queens quite matched her in looks. Beatrice is a bit like her, about the eyes.” But clearly he was displeased about the rest of her.

Did King Helm not see how much she was like him?
It seemed that she was rejected for any sign of femininity yet also rejected for not showing enough femininity. How could she win?

“Well, what about tomorrow? Shall we have a hunt? If you are recovered from your journey, that is?” asked King Helm.

George unclenched his jaw and found his headache had become worse than ever. He had to get to the woods. The king’s hunt was an opportunity, if not ideal. There would be a good chance he could at least play the role of the foolish prince and get himself lost. It seemed that King Helm hardly expected any different from him.

“Yes, thank you,” George said automatically.

“Perhaps we’ll find another man-beast,” said King Helm jovially, looking around his courtiers for support. They showed it by hammering their fists on the table.

When the sound died down, King Helm turned to George and spoke as though George had come from a different world entirely, where animal magic had never been heard of.

“Now and again beasts come out of the great forest. Man-beasts we call them if they try to meet our eyes. For there are those who claim that it is only a man transformed to a beast with his own magic who does such a thing.”

George was pierced with the thought of the bear he had seen so many years before. “And you kill such beasts?” he asked, horrified.

“Of course. It is a service, really. Put them out of their misery, hey?” said the king.

“But—” George stopped himself. Now was not the time. And King Helm was definitely not the man to ask.

Then George saw that Beatrice was watching him. Had he already revealed himself? But Beatrice was perhaps the last person in the hall who would pass on any suspicions to her father. And she did not look disgusted at all. Perhaps she was thinking of something else entirely.

“When we return, we shall have a marvelous feast. Beatrice will dance at it, won’t she, good girl?”

Beatrice’s mouth tightened. That was all the acknowledgment she gave her father’s question.

“Ah, a quiet woman. What else could any man wish for in a bride?” said King Helm with a broad smile.

George could think of a number of things. A woman who had thoughts worth sharing, for one. But if one never asked, then one would never know if it was possible, would one?

What a kingdom.

What a king.

And what a princess.