The Princess and the Hound (12 page)

T
HAT NIGHT AT DINNER
George noticed, for Cook Elin’s sake, that Beatrice ate her meat bloody rare, as her father did. George himself picked at the meat indifferently, trying only to eat enough to give no offense.

But Beatrice ate her meat with the same relish her father showed for his. And she offered a second portion of it to Marit, who was held on her mistress’s lap and allowed to lick from the plate.

George saw more than one face around the table turn away from this sight, trying not to show disgust.

Beatrice showed no sign of even noting the reaction.

Finally, at the end of the meal, one of Beatrice’s women stood up and raised her glass. “I should like to make a toast,” she said.

The servants scurried to make sure all glasses were full. George noticed that Beatrice’s glass looked as if it
had not been touched all night long.

“To the prince and princess,” said the woman with a sudden giggle and a fluttering smile.

Was she drunk?

“May they make…beautiful hounds.” She raised her glass and drained it, then fell into her seat.

In the stunned silence that followed, George tried to remember her name. She had a mole on her cheek and light-colored hair that was straightened back tightly to hide its natural curl.

Lady Dulen, that was it.

In the silence it seemed that no one dared look anywhere. Not at her, not at Beatrice or Marit, and certainly not at George or King Helm.

George was boiling inside. If he were in Kendel—He could not imagine this ever happening in Kendel. Surely there would be some punishment here. King Helm could not stand idly by and let his daughter be insulted in this way.

Yet when George looked to him, the king had a faint smile on his lips. And Princess Beatrice continued holding her glass, as if frozen.

“It was a joke, Beatrice,” said Lady Dulen after a moment. “You must learn someday to take a joke.”

Then King Helm added, “It was just a joke, my dear. Laugh.”

If it had been a man who had said it, would King Helm have acted the same? Or was it only a woman
who could speak to another woman this way?

King Helm raised a glass. “May they make beautiful hounds together,” he repeated, and began laughing, quietly at first, and then roaring.

George looked around at those seated next to him. They were staring back and forth between Lady Dulen and the king. George realized then what he had not seen before, the possessive look on Lady Dulen’s face as she watched the king.

As if he belonged to her.

He made it clearer by motioning her to his side and kissing her loudly on the mouth. Then the king turned back to the table. “Come, come, laugh with me!” he said.

He seemed to expect that even George would take part.

But George put down his glass deliberately and shook his head. He could not demand that King Helm punish the woman, and in truth he could not think of a suitable punishment. Besides, it was the king himself who had encouraged this attitude. If anyone should be punished, it was he.

George reached for Beatrice’s hand. He wanted to do something to show his support for her, but she turned away violently. As if he were the one she was angry with.

What would she want then? What could he do for her? He could think of nothing. And yet he could not simply let her go on being ignored and abused by those around her.

He turned to Lady Dulen. “Hounds are loyal at least,” he said.

Lady Dulen twitched a bit, but George wanted to do more. He looked back at Beatrice, who was glaring at him fiercely.

He had done it wrong yet again. How?

Was Beatrice trying to prove that she could take anything her father decided she should endure?

Hadn’t she learned that she could not win with him that way?

“Excuse me. I think I am quite finished eating.” George put down his napkin and turned to leave.

But Marit came after him, pushing at his leg, forcing him to go more slowly and then to stop altogether.

He felt a fool. Again.

“King Helm, might I interest you in a game of kings?” he asked, to save the moment—if that was still possible.

“You play the game of kings?” King Helm’s interest was immediately piqued. “Certainly, certainly. I shall have my board brought in here, and we can play as entertainment for all of them.” He waved around the room.

With those words the servants poured in to clear the huge wooden table of dishes and food, glasses and drinks.

“Shall I allow you the first few moves alone?” asked King Helm. “I should not wish to humiliate you.”

He would wish to humiliate me,
George thought. But he smiled coldly. “I’m sure there is no worry of that. Your daughter has taught me much of the game already. I think that after having lost to her, I will do very well against you.”

“My daughter?” said King Helm, astonished. “Beatrice?” As if he had any other daughter.

“Indeed. She beat me in a whole room of your soldiers in the drinking hall yesterday. If you doubt it, you can ask any one of them.”

King Helm turned to look at Beatrice. It were as if he was seeing another person entirely.

“Well, well, I am intrigued. I rarely have an opponent I can truly unleash myself on.”

“Unleash yourself freely,” said George. He hoped he was not idly boasting.

Still stiff from the swordplay as he sat down across from King Helm, he found that Marit remained with him. When he started to lift a player, she touched his knee with her nose, a subtle hint that he was wrong. He tried another player, and she did the same. When he chose the right player, she did nothing.

Ah, so this was part of Beatrice’s secret.

George looked to her across the board, for she was on her father’s side, and she smiled.

He did not know if she had trained Marit to do this or how Marit had come to understand the game of kings. In any case, George’s play became more and more
ruthless as she guided him.

By the end, not so very long as in the game with Beatrice, George was the winner.

“I shall have to think this over,” said King Helm. He seemed on the verge of accusing George of cheating.

And perhaps George had cheated. But he would do it again if he had to. He touched Marit’s head gently in thanks. She moved back to Beatrice.

“Perhaps you will permit me to play with you again sometime?” asked King Helm with more graciousness.

“Yes, of course,” said George. “Sometime. But for now I should like to rest.”

King Helm gave a wave of his hand in permission, then turned back to stare at the board.

George walked out, head held high. But a step later he turned back at the sound of Lady Dulen’s voice. She was on the threshold of the room, her eyes flashing at Beatrice.

She pointed a finger. “You—you think you are a princess?” she hissed, this time softly enough that King Helm could not hear. “You are nothing more than an animal. You do not belong in a palace. You belong in the woods.” Then Lady Dulen spat in her face.

George tensed. If she were a man, he could call her out to a duel. But even Beatrice could not do that. Women were not allowed to fight duels. Women did not use weapons. Only words.

Beatrice let the warm liquid drip down her chin and
fall onto her gown. Then, at last, she made her response. She moved slowly, so that not even Lady Dulen suspected what she meant to do. Certainly Lady Dulen did not move away from Beatrice’s hand. It lifted from her side, then fell on Lady Dulen’s shoulder. And there it pressed and pressed.

Lady Dulen gasped at the pain. Her eyes went fever bright, and her legs began to slump.

Yet Beatrice showed no mercy.

It was Marit that did, Marit, who barked and made Beatrice give up her grip.

Lady Dulen gave one look of sizzling hatred. “An animal,” she whispered again.

“An animal is always dangerous to confront. Remember that,” said Beatrice. And then she walked away without a backward glance at George or Lady Dulen. Marit strode at her side.

George stood still, until Lady Dulen turned on him. “And that is what you will marry?” she demanded, trying to win the last word on the matter.

George only smiled. “That is what I shall marry,” he said. “And I would marry her a hundred times before ever I would deign to sit in the same room with you and sip soup.”

T
HAT NIGHT
G
EORGE
had no dreams of the hound or of Princess Beatrice, which bothered him more than he could explain. He woke feeling leaden and empty, as bad as when he had a headache from the animal magic, but not like that at all. He dressed quickly and went immediately in search of Beatrice.

He needed to talk to her. And not merely because of that stupid woman Lady Dulen.

Knowing enough about Beatrice to guess that outside the castle was the best bet, after some wandering, George to his surprise found Marit alone by the training grounds. He was surprised to see the hound without the mistress, for he had thought them inseparable.

He approached the hound slowly, but so far as he could tell, she had no fear of him. On the other hand, she did not seem to recognize him as familiar or expect
that she should go to him to receive a treat either. She simply stood and watched as he came closer.

At last he was on his knees and lifting his hand to the hound’s nose. She sniffed, then stared at George.

It was the strangest look. He had not seen anything like it since he had first met the bear in the forest when he was seven years old.

“What are you?” George barked in what he recalled of the language of hounds from his days with Teeth. He hoped that wild hounds would speak as the tamed ones had and that it would only be that they did not lose their speech.

The hound’s eyes went wider, and she stepped back.

Had he been wrong? Had she lost her own language, as Teeth had, by her long association with Princess Beatrice?

George was not willing to give up so easily, however. “Are you thirsty? Are you hungry?” he tried. The words came to him without a struggle. He had used them with Teeth, and the more he spoke, the more he remembered.

The hound barked tentatively—and wordlessly—back at him. He did not know what it meant. He hoped it was only surprise, and a little reluctance to speak with him.

So George tried once more. “Tell me of your mistress,” he barked. It was the limit of his ability to speak in this language, but if only the hound would speak back to him, he could learn more.

But a hand on his shoulder made George’s heart stop. He turned and saw the princess herself standing behind him, as fierce a look on her face as he had seen on any animal whose territory he had trodden too close to or whose young he had touched.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice asked.

Had she heard him barking at the hound? What could she possibly make of that? Nothing good, certainly.

What an idiot he was, to try such a thing where it was most dangerous. If she guessed at the truth…

“I was looking for you, but since I could not find you, I thought to make friends with your hound,” said George quickly. “I thought that it would be well for me to begin now, since I expect you will not be leaving her behind when you come to marry me.”

“No. Certainly not.” She looked as though the idea had not occurred to her and, now that it had, shook her severely. Her father’s power over her she had come to live with, but perhaps she had not thought what it would mean to be married and have a husband’s demands to consider.

“She is not…as other hounds I have known,” said George.

“She is the one living creature I trust wholly,” said Beatrice. “She would never betray me.”

George believed her. He turned to look at the hound’s reaction, expecting her to be reflecting her mis
tress’s distress. Instead, he found her circling Beatrice’s legs, imparting calm to her as she had once done for George.

“What did you come to speak to me about?” Beatrice asked, forcing herself with some effort, it seemed, to speak politely.

Likely she would be offended if he tried to ask more roundabout questions. So he laid it out plainly. “I wanted to know how you and Marit found each other.”

“Why do you wish to know? Do you think to find a hound for yourself?” She did not have her hands on her hips, but instead, her head leaned forward, her teeth bared in something like a growl.

“No, no!” George held up his hands. Had others asked her for that reason? Anyone who truly saw them would know that there was no way to duplicate their relationship. And who would want to? It was too close for George to feel comfortable with and yet not as close as others would want with a pet.

“I only want to know of you,” George told her.

“Because we are to be married? My father never wished to know his wives beyond their beauty and their ability to make sons,” she said.

“Ah.” There it was, the old hurt. “I am not like your father,” said George. If she had not seen that already, was there any chance she could see it now?

Beatrice considered this for a time. “Why?” she asked.

George did not know how to answer that, or was it only that he did not dare to?

“Is it because of the barking?” Beatrice asked suddenly.

George went very still. “Barking?” he echoed.

“The way you were playing with Marit. I have never seen a man do that before, with a hound. They expect hounds to answer to their language.”

“That may be part of the reason I am different,” George said, the words pressed out of his tightening throat.

“And the other reason?”

“Perhaps I was born different. Or made different by the parents who raised me,” said George honestly. Did anyone ever know why he was the person that he was, animal magic or no?

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “I can see how that would be. A different pack has different rules.”

She had seen packs in the forest then, had watched them to know their customs. It was not a bad way to think of the world.

“Perhaps I also made myself different, because I wished to be,” George added after a moment.

Beatrice looked at him then, and for a moment George thought he could see through her eyes to her soul, and she the same with him. It was a moment of pure understanding, such as George had never had with another person. It shook him, made him tremble at the
strength of the connection, in fear and awe.

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “That happens as well. Even in the wild, to animals who have broken from their packs.” She paused and then, without another prompting from George, said, “I shall tell you of when Marit and I met.”

George gulped in air, glad now that she was speaking instead of him.

“Beatrice was—I was fourteen years old and angry with my father. I fled the castle. I did not take a horse, or a blanket, or food. I did not want anything from him.

“I set out at night, so that no one would see me. By morning I was far away, so far south I did not know if I was in Sarrey anymore, and lost deep in a woods I had never seen before. I went toward the sound of water and fell into a stream. I twisted an ankle, and it was painful to stand on it, agony to walk.

“Then behind me I heard the sound of wild hounds, barking at the scent of prey. I thought they meant to devour me. I flung myself into the trees and ran, ignoring the pain in my ankle. The pack of wild hounds chased after me. I thought they were chasing me.

“At last I noticed that beside me ran a hound, chased by the same pack that chased me. Perhaps they chased her first, I do not know, but when I saw her, I knew that she and I ran for the same reason.

“We ran and ran, until at last we came upon a bear. The bear snarled at the pack of hounds and swiped at the lead male. He was wounded and called at the others
to turn back, to follow him home. They snarled once more at Marit and me, and then they were gone.

“I was certain that the bear would devour us himself then, and I prepared myself for death. But it did not come. The bear only stared at us for what seemed a very long time, looking at one and then the other of us. But whatever it was looking for, it did not find, and it went on its way without touching either of us.”

A bear again,
George thought. His bear?

“We have never been parted since then.”

Beatrice put her hand on Marit’s head, and George was struck once more with how alike they were. The way they held their heads proudly, the way they had borne hurt and yet would not bow to it.

Still, Marit was softer than her mistress. She seemed not to have that ruthless streak George had seen with Lady Dulen. Perhaps that part of the princess came from King Helm, and Beatrice would one day set it aside if she became confident in her own strength.

“We have never told that story to anyone before,” said Beatrice. “We did not think we would ever tell it to anyone, not even to you.”

It seemed a gift, far more precious than the glass hound George had given her and far more personal. He felt ashamed that he had nothing to offer in return. Or did he?

“I am sorry that you never met my mother,” George said at last. He thought again of the story of his mother
and how she had at last told the truth to King Davit. Yes, he thought, that is the way it must be. Truth must come first in any real marriage. And he could not imagine wanting any less than a real marriage with Beatrice now.

She had been hurt too much before. She should not be hurt again.

“I never met my own mother,” said Beatrice. “I do not think I know what I am missing. Perhaps it is better that way.”

George’s mouth opened, then closed. “That is not what I meant,” he said at last. “That is—my mother was very much a friend of animals.”

“Yes, I think I had heard that.” Beatrice spoke with narrowed eyes.

Did she know? Did she guess? How much did George have to spell out for her? There was always the danger that she would be horrified. George’s mouth went dry at the thought.

“She had a gift,” George said. He could not stop now. She had shared with him. She deserved something in return. And truth be known, he was tired of always hiding himself.

“I have the same gift.” George’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

He could hear Beatrice breathing and Marit breathing. They waited. Beatrice did not pepper him with questions but let him tell the tale his own way, as
he had let her tell theirs.

“My magic is only that I can speak to animals in their own tongue.” He stared intently at Beatrice’s face and at Marit’s. He could see nothing at all.

But at last Beatrice said only, “I shall not tell your secret.”

George breathed heavily. He nodded. “Thank you.”

Was that it? Was that how it was to end between them today? After so much sharing, polite nothings and then a parting?

“Good morning,” Beatrice said, and walked away.

Marit looked back a moment longer, but then George was alone.

He had never felt so alone in his life.