Mistress of Dragons (39 page)

The
two of them were closer than they had ever been before, for now they had only
each other to love and think of. They were everything to each other, spent time
only with each other, shunning their neighbors. But there was a difference in
Melisande’s love and Bellona felt it. A curtain, finespun as cobweb,
transparent as sorrow, and ephemeral as happiness, had fallen between them. Not
even fond affection could draw that dark curtain aside.

Melisande
had one other abiding passion. She was determined to return to Seth, to tell
the people the truth about the Mistress. This determination kept her going
through the sickness, the weariness, the pain, and the fear. She and Bellona
made plans, spoke every evening of what they would do when Melisande was
recovered and able to travel.

The
villagers left the young couple alone, though the wise women would often look
askance at Melisande on those rare days when she ventured out of her house and
whisper about how ill she looked. Gifts of venison would often appear on their
doorstoop or someone would stop by with a broth to tempt “the dear thing to eat
a mite.”

Only
one person was able to befriend the two and he was such an oddity that this
strange friendship didn’t seem to count as such. The cottage next door came up
for lease quite suddenly, its owners moving out unexpectedly. This man moved
in. Middle-aged, dark-eyed, with a full black beard and long, graying black
hair, he kept to himself, said nothing to anyone, and made it plain that he
wanted to be strictly left alone. He became known as the Hermit.

The
Hermit did not go out to work. No one knew how he made his living or what he
did all day. Bellona was distrustful of him, for she sometimes caught glimpses
of him staring fixedly at their cottage. She warned Melisande to be wary of him
and Melisande was wary, at first. Then came the day when she was alone and she
needed water from the village pump. She was struggling to fill the heavy
bucket, when a strong hand took it from her. The Hermit said nothing to her. He
pumped the water, carried it back to her house for her, and left, ignoring her
thanks.

After
that, if she needed water or wood chopped or the fire lighted or any small task
done, he would instinctively know and show up to do it. He never spoke. He
refused all attempts at payment. When she tried to thank him by leaving a loaf
of fresh baked bread on his windowsill, the bread remained there untouched
until one of the local dogs carried it off. The villagers popularly believed
that he was mute, and the rumor went about that his tongue had been torn out as
a punishment for blasphemy.

No
one liked the Hermit or trusted him except Melisande.

“There
is something in his eyes when he looks at me,” she told Bellona, “as if he
understands and is sorry.”

“We
don’t need anyone’s pity,” returned Bellona, bristling.

“It’s
not that,” Melisande replied softly. “I can’t explain it. It’s as if he knows
...”

Bellona
looked at her sharply. “You didn’t say anything to him?”

“No,
of course not.”

“Maybe
that servant said something. The king’s servant. The one who tried to give us
money. I’m glad you sent him packing. We want nothing from that man.”

Bellona
talked on and on. Melisande didn’t respond. She found comfort in the sound of
the beloved voice, though she often did not hear what Bellona said. She knew
this hurt Bellona sometimes. Melisande could see the hurt in her eyes and she
was sorry to have caused it, but she was helpless to stop. She heard only one
voice—the voice of fear. It drowned out all others.

Putting
down her needle, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, sighing deeply.
She was in her ninth month, her belly huge and distended, so that she could not
stand without help. She could not sleep for the discomfort. The only relief she
found was to lie propped up against Bellona, who would gently massage her back
and rub her swollen feet. What food Melisande ate all seemed to go to the baby,
for she grew thinner as the child grew larger.

She
could take no pleasure in the child, for whenever she felt its life stir within
her, she knew only terror. She hoped the baby would be the king’s, but she
could not know for sure. She would not know until the birthing, and she wished
desperately her time would come and bring release.

“Even
the pain of childbirth will be welcome,” she said softly, placing her hand on
her swollen belly, “for it will be so much easier to bear than not knowing.”

Babies
take after their fathers, so the midwife told her: Thus does nature insure that
the father will acknowledge the child. Melisande held two faces in her
heart—one face handsome and smiling, with hazel eyes that glinted gold in the
sunlight; the other face hard and brutal, its eyes empty of all save cruel
lust.

One
look at the babe’s face and she would know and she would pick up the remnants
of her life, stitch them together, and go on.

That
midmorning in the spring when the new leaves were tiny buds on the trees, the
pains came. Melisande sank down on the floor and wept for joy.

Bellona
was not with her that morning. She had not wanted to leave Melisande at this
late stage in her pregnancy, but Melisande had persuaded her to go to her work.

“If
truth be told, you fidget me beyond endurance when you’re here,” Melisande said
to her, smiling. “You pace about like a wild beast and look out the window and
fuss with the fire, so that I’m either half-frozen or broiled like a chicken.
You spoil my work by trying to help and I’m certain that you are the cause of
the bread refusing to rise.”

Bellona
gave her such a hurt look that Melisande laughed, the first laughter Bellona
had heard from her in many months.

“I’m
teasing, beloved,” Melisande said, nestling in her lover’s strong arms.

“No,
you’re not,” Bellona retorted. “At least, underneath you are not. Very well, I
will go, but I will have the midwife check on you.”

“Really,
I feel so much better today . . .”

“That’s
because the baby has dropped,” Bellona said, with an air of wise experience, “which
means your time will be soon.”

“Pray
God for that,” Melisande whispered, squeezing her lover’s hand. “Pray God.”

“Are
you sure you want me to go?” Bellona asked at the door.

Melisande
nodded.

Bellona
had not been gone long when the pains began.

The
royal forest preserve was located about five miles from the village. The walk
was a pleasant one, over hills white with sheep and green with grass, alive
with the sounds of tinkling bells, the shepherd’s call, and barking dogs.
Beyond was the forest, its darker green encompassing the grassy green, its
shadows enfolding and smoothing away the bleating of the sheep and all other
sounds of the outside world.

The
moment Bellona entered the wilderness that morning, treading lightly on the
path the foresters had worn smooth over years of guardianship, she sensed that
all was not right.

Born
and raised in the monastery, which was, to all intents, a small, self-contained
city, Bellona had only rarely been exposed to the wilderness and that only on
hunting expeditions and training exercises. What she had seen of the
wilderness, she hadn’t much liked. Accustomed to order and discipline and
control, Bellona found to her intense frustration that nature deplored order,
fostered chaos, and lived by her own rules.

The
more time she spent alone among the gigantic trees, which cared nothing for
her, but lived their secret lives aloof, Bellona came to realize that there was
order and discipline in nature, albeit not her kind. Everything in nature lived
to die and died to live. That was the order, that was the discipline. Man fit
into that order, but he alone was different. He fought to escape it, to avoid
it. Nature might struggle briefly, as the rabbit struggled in the teeth of the
fox, but the struggle was instinctive and, in the end, accepted its fate: The
rabbit does not hunt the fox to prevent its death, nor does the fox hunt the
lion.

At
first, this order seemed so cruel and uncaring that it terrified Bellona, as
nothing else had ever frightened the stalwart warrior. But as she lived with it
daily, she came to find it peaceful and soothing as the silence and the deep
shadows. To know that this was order everlasting was to know God.

Stepping
inside the forest that morning, Bellona sensed that God had been disturbed.

She
heard it first in the silence, which was too silent. No squirrels played at
games in the trees, leaping from branch to branch with a childlike sense of
fun. No deer started at the sight of her and dashed off, their white tails
flashing the warning of her presence. No wolf trotted across her path, keeping
an eye on her, but not really minding her, absorbed in his own affairs. The
animals had gone to ground.

“Poachers,”
thought Bellona and she drew her bow and nocked an arrow.

She
had come to feel protective of this wilderness and the thought of poachers
snaring her rabbits and slaying her deer angered her.

She
moved deeper into the woods, watching and listening. Her vigilance was
rewarded. She heard voices. She was startled by this, for the voices were not
hushed or whispering, as might be expected from outlaws. They were raised in
normal tones. Perhaps the king or some of his noble friends had come hunting
unannounced.

She
crept forward and, as she drew closer, she could hear the voices more clearly.
The voices were those of women.

Truth
flashed upon her in an instant. Bellona knew immediately that the warrior women
of Seth had found them. She knew because she had long expected and feared it.

Panicked
instinct urged her to race back immediately to protect Melisande. Cooler logic
suggested that she had time to see for herself what she was up against.
Strangers of any sort were rare in the village. Accustomed to defending
themselves from raiders after their sheep or bears after their food, the
villagers were suspicious of anyone they did not know. They fought with crude
weapons and were not trained to a soldier’s standards, but they could hold
their own. They would not let any armed soldiers enter their town without
putting up a fight.

Bellona
crept closer, moving with the stealthy care she had learned from the fox and
the rabbit. She placed herself in a position to see and hear, without being
seen or heard.

The
first woman she saw was Nzangia.

Nzangia
had twelve warriors with her. They wore huntsmen’s garb to avoid attracting
attention, disguising themselves as men, as Bellona had done. They had not come
to do battle, for they wore no chain or plate armor, carried no shield or
spear. Their helms were of leather, not steel. They were armed with bows and
arrows and small short swords, as would any hunter. This was to be a stealthy
operation, most likely carried out after nightfall.

“You
have spied out the house?” Nzangia asked.

“We
have, Commander,” said one. “It is on the outskirts of the village. Several
other houses are nearby and they are inhabited—”

“They
will not interfere,” said Nzangia. “They will be otherwise engaged. Drusilla,
you take—”

Bellona
waited to hear no more. If she returned to Melisande now, she would have time
to take her to a place of safety, then she would return and bring help. Running
swiftly, she raced back to the village.

If
she had stayed one more moment, she would have heard Nzangia add, “Remember, we
want the baby. Our spy sent us word that the birthing has started. Our signal
is the baby’s cry ...

THE
PAINS WERE NOT BAD NOW, BUT MELISANDE KNEW they would grow worse. She’d heard
the screams of a young neighbor woman who had recently given birth and she understood
what she faced. She was not afraid now, however. She felt strangely
exhilarated. The end was near, in sight.

Crouching
on the floor, she gripped the arms of a heavy chair and managed to pull herself
to her feet. She would have time before the pain came again to summon the
midwife. She started toward the door, thinking she might call out to some of
the children, who were always playing about the yard, when another pain hit.
This was so much sharper, a red-hot wave, running up her back, that she staggered
and gasped, crying out.

A
shadow fell over her. The Hermit stood in the doorway.

She
opened her mouth to tell him, but the Hermit came to her and took hold of her,
led her back to the chair, and seated her.

“I
will go for the midwife,” he said and departed.

She
stared after him, troubled and amazed. Those were the first words she had ever
heard him speak and there seemed something familiar about his voice. She tried
to think, but the pain was too severe and she was worried that it should be
this bad this soon. She sank back in the chair and panted for breath.

Bellona
reached the cottage to find the Hermit leaning against the wall, his head down,
his hands jammed into the pockets of his breeches. He raised his head as she
approached, and regarded her with a dark and penetrating stare.

At
the sight of her face, he took his hands out of his pockets, straightened.

“What
is it?” he asked urgently. “What’s wrong?”

Bellona
ignored him, started to brush past him. He put out his arm, as though to try to
halt her. She glared at him and he let his arm fall.

Inside,
Melisande screamed in pain.

Bellona
stood frozen, paralyzed by the sound. Her heart in her mouth, she thrust open
the closed door.

The
cottage consisted of a single room with few furnishings—a table and two stools,
a large chair for Melisande, her loom, and a bed in the warmest corner, near
the fireplace.