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DRAGONSPELL
Marianne Willman
To Friends and Friendship—especially to Nora, Ruth, and Jill, whose loyalty and love are valued “above rubies”
And to Linda and Tina Blaschke, “pearls beyond price,” whose friendship, love, and support eased us through a very trying time
1
Once upon atime, in the days of Magic and Wonder, there lived a princess in the Kingdom of Amelonia. Like all proper princesses, she was lovely as the dawn, with fiery hair and skin like petals of the rose. But she was not like any other princess, then or now, as you will soon discover. And such an unusual princess surely deserves to win the love of a most unusual man…
On a warm summer’s day, several noble ladies sat in the castle’s solar, heads bowed over their embroidery frames. In the courtyard outside, a market day was in progress, sounds of music and laughter drifting in through the open casement window.
The only sounds inside, except for the occasional snick of tiny golden scissors, were the frequent sighs of the youngest, whose jeweled coronet sat slightly askew on her shimmering auburn hair. The amethyst cabochons were the exact color of her thickly lashed eyes.
How tedious to be stuck away on such a beautiful afternoon.No, unbearable!thought the Princess Tressalara. If she had her way, she would be riding out over the meadows with her hair blowing free in the sun, instead of wasting her time in such drudgery.
She stabbed the golden needle into the taut cloth in the frame…and into her finger, as well.
“By Saint Ethelred’s beard!” she exclaimed in annoyance, sucking her injured finger. A small drop of blood splashed onto her white silk gown.
The court ladies gasped in shock at such language from their princess. Lady Grette, the chief among the others, rose and went to her mistress’s side, making soothing little noises. When the princess was annoyed, it was best to stay out of her way; but when her rosy pink mouth firmed to a hard line, an explosion was imminent.
“Now, now. Patience is a virtue to be cultivated by the wise seamstress. I know it is hard, Princess Tressalara, to remain indoors on a fine summer’s day. But you must finish your work before you ride out. You are King Varro’s daughter, and it is time and more that you learn all the duties and skills of a royal lady.” How else was the headstrong princess ever going to mend her ways and acquire a proper husband? Heaven knew she needed one.
Tressalara’s eyes darkened to violet as she eyed her handiwork ruefully. “What good is it being the king’s daughter when I am kept inside like a prisoner? Why, the lowliest peasant in Amelonia has more freedom than I! Give me one good reason why I should spend any more time at this hopeless task.”
The chief lady-in-waiting played her best card. “Because the king, your father, wishes it.”
Tressalara fell silent. Lady Grette knew her weaknesses all too well. She would do anything to make her father proud of her. Anything to make him acknowledge that she was as capable and fit to rule after him as any man. As capable and fit as the strong sons he had longed for and never had.
Could she not ride and fence and loose her arrows to the target’s heart with the best of them? Was she not clever at games of strategy? Wise in dispensing justice at the monthly assizes? And he would have her spend her days sewing posies and knotting fringes instead!
But she would do it. Because she loved him. And because she wanted him to love her in return. “Oh, very well.”
Lady Grette leaned over the embroidery frame and examined Tressalara’s handiwork with dismay. She certainly expected more from a princess of eighteen summers. Why, any of her youngest charges in the nursery could have done better. The stitches were all higgledy-piggledy, like the wavering progress of a rum-sotted sailor in a port town.
A shame that the king had not taken another gentle wife to raise his daughter, rather than locking himself away with his prayers and memories these past ten years. It was a wonder that the princess, motherless and raised like a boy since then, hadn’t clambered out a window and escaped to the stables long ago this morning, the way she used to as a wee, naughty lass.
Ah, well. Lady Grette steeled her heart. It was for Tressalara’s own good. She was a young woman now, ripe for marriage. Her father hoped to arrange a match between the princess and some foreign prince before the harvest was in. The royal scribe said that word of King Varro’s intentions had been sent to kings and dukes and princes far and wide, although his messengers had not yet returned from abroad. No doubt they would, with many splendid offers for Tressalara’s hand.
At least, she certainly hoped so: The lady-in-waiting did not like Lord Lector, the king’s chief advisor. Grette feared that the king was considering him as a son-in-law. Certainly he had let Lector take over the reins of government to a large extent. The man was lobbying hard for the position, if half of what she heard was true.
But handsome as he was, he would make a terrible husband for a headstrong girl like Tressalara. There were those rumors that he had been responsible for bloody raids against their neighbors that had been blamed on Cador of Kildore. But Grette was sure that Lector would not have stooped so low. This was a peaceable kingdom.
In an attempt to ignore her disquiet, she turned her attention to the task at hand. “These straggling stitches will not do, your highness! You must pick them all out and start over. It is long past the time when you should have learned the gentle womanly arts.”
Tressalara ground her teeth. It had taken her two hours to set those stitches. She had tried, truly tried, to do them properly. Now she tried, truly tried, to rein in her temper. As usual, it got the better of her. Instead of reaching for the tiny scissors, she rose and drew her jeweled dagger.
“Thisfor the gentlewomanlyarts!” she exclaimed, slashing her blade through the faulty stitches—and through the taut linen beneath as well. It made a most satisfactory ripping sound. “There. They are all out, every one!”
While the ladies stared, aghast, their princess turned on her heel and left the room. No one followed. No one dared. She was still their royal mistress.
Tressalara’s anger spurred her on. She reached her chambers and took out the boy’s garb she’d hidden in one of her dower chests. The clothes had lain there for months, unused, since she had given a scrawny stable lad her best leather jerkin in exchange for the smocked shirt and trews of drab brown homespun. Rough garb indeed.
There was a time when she’d had as fine a set of hunting garb as any princeling and had ridden out in her father’s train with her bow and arrows on her back. But that was before nature had made her womanhood too evident, by adding curves to what had been the figure of a spindle-shanked stripling. It was most unfair!
Worst of all was the knowledge that her changed appearance was the true reason behind her changed status. It had reminded her father that his only child was not the longed-for son. Her father felt that women were too weak to rule alone. Since he had no male heir, he had recently let slip that he intended to marry her off to some foreign prince. Fire flashed in Tressalara’s eyes.