Chapter 3 | The Queen Who Ruled by Herself

Macca of Sairland stood up briefly in her stirrups, her gray eyes intent on the falcon wheeling overhead. Beside her, she felt Prince Ilhovin shift uncomfortably in his saddle. "What disturbs you, my lord?" she said, never taking her eyes from her bird.

"Disturbs me?" said Ilhovin, blinking. "Why would my lady say I'm disturbed?"

"You sit a horse very well, your highness," she said in her lilting accent.

"I thank you for the compliment," he laughed, "but does that shows an inner disturbance?"

"No," she said, sparing him an amused glance, "it shows you are well acquainted with the ways of animals, yes? A good rider can sense his mount's mood. It's an easy matter for one to use the same skills to sense the moods of those around him. Don't you? I do."

"Shall I attach significance to being compared to your mount, my lady?" said Ilhovin in a low voice, arching a brow.

"I read my dogs and my birds as well as my mounts," she answered crisply. Just then, the beaters flushed something out of the grass. "A grouse, by Palg! She stoops! Wallek!" she called to her falconer. The falcon streaked down from on high and struck the grouse hard, circling back to land the killing blow and bring it to ground.

The party rode up; Wallek dismounted and ran to take the grouse from the falcon, taking her onto his fist and slipping a soft leather hood with a topknot of iridescent green feathers over her head. He brought the bird to her mistress, the jewelled bells on the falcon's legs and tail jingling slightly as she settled on Macca's gloved hand. "I would tell you what a fine bird you are," she cooed as she fed the falcon a bit of raw rabbit meat, "but you don't give a fig or a feather for my opinion, do you, Fleet?"

"Why do you keep a pet that doesn't care for you?" said Ilhovin as they headed back through the forest toward the hunting lodge.

"Fleet is not a pet, she's my hunting partner," answered Macca. "And I don't 'keep' her. She flies free. Fleet stays because she knows with me she always has food, drink and safety. There is affection, I think, a very practical affection. I'm fond of her, at least!" Macca laughed. She tilted her head at Ilhovin. "I'm not surprised you're a little uncomfortable, my lord. I hear you don't hunt with birds in Tremont."

"No, my lady, not for the last 400 years. Nor do our ladies sit astride. When they ride at all, which is rarely, they sit sidesaddle." Macca gave a delicate snort, and he continued. "Though I must say, the trewes, or double skirt, or whatever you call your riding habit, it's very becoming on you."

Macca pretended to ignore the compliment. "I imagine our ways are quite strange to you."

"My lady, Sairish ways are the model for our own," replied Ilhovin. "Sairland is the birthplace of civilization, the very ground on which the classical poets, scholars and philosophers walked. We worship the same gods, though under slightly different names, we speak the same language--in so many ways, Tremont looks to Sairland as a child to its mother."

"And yet, like many a child, you believe yourselves to be greater in understanding than your parent."

"Is there no possibility of that?" said Ilhovin with a smile.

She looked cooly down her turned-up nose. "That Tremont has surpassed Sairland in wisdom?" she asked. "A strange way to woo a princess of Sairland, your highness." She spurred her horse into the stable yard ahead of him.

Ilhovin hung back. "Master Wallek," he said to the falconer beside him, "you've known her highness a long time, yes?"

"Since she was a child, my lord," said the sturdy man.

"My lady is quite dry in her humor. How can you tell when she's serious and when she's jesting?"

"That, your highness," said Wallek solemnly, shaking his head. "is a matter of time and experience. More than that it isn't proper for me to say." Ilhovin turned away, grimacing, and headed into the stable yard himself; he missed completely the grin that broke out over Wallek's good-humored face.

Ilhovin could have used the sight of that grin, though it might have caused him more consternation in the short run. Macca puzzled him thoroughly. Even in his short life he was used to girls going to great lengths to attract his notice. He was, after all, the Heir, and the undisputed one, at that. His mother died when he was 12, and his father Gethin had never remarried, saying prophecy and magic made the health of his one child a sure bet. Gethin never kept mistresses either, preferring instead the company of his closest friend, Attik. As far as anyone knew, Ilhovin was the last male of his line. No close cousins, no illegitimate brothers. No one in line for the throne, but him.

But Macca was not a girl. She was 22, a spinster by Tremontine standards, but not by Sairish ones. She wasn't the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, but there was something about her that made him press his suit as much for his own sake as for his father's. Sometimes he'd almost swear she was encouraging him, but then he'd do or say something and that dry tone would come to her voice--like old parchment, it was so dry--and he couldn't for the life of him tell whether she was serious or teasing.

He wondered why he cared, but he did. She was so unlike Tremontine girls. Perhaps it was her independence. Perhaps it was how she never gave way in a discussion if she believed herself to be in the right of things. Or perhaps, he told himself, it was that damned confounding dry humor. Whatever it was, she was beginning to intrude on his dreams, and very improper ones they were. He dismounted, still distracted by his thoughts.

"My lady is certainly an opinionated woman, isn't she?" came a low voice at his side.

"Yes, Henrik, that's one word for her," said Ilhovin, turning to the Earl of Belleth with a wry grimace. "I'm not sure what to do. We've been here since Venna's Day, and here we are nearly eight weeks later and we're no closer to sealing either this treaty or this marriage. If I have to spend the winter bouncing off my lady's iron-clad wit I'll go soft in the head. Pagg's Balls, I've never had a girl play so skittish in my life."

"Why bother?" said Hendrik, removing his riding gloves. "We'll conclude this treaty to Tremont's benefit whether you marry her or no, and I certainly wouldn't want to be saddled with a mannish thing like Macca."

"Mannish? I think she's rather pretty, in a Sairish way." Ilhovin began walking slowly back to the lodge.

"Oh, to be sure," said Henrik, joining him. "But in attitude, she behaves as a man would--more like a wild horse that needs breaking to the bit than anything. Come to think on it, Hov, that may be your way in." He stopped the prince with a hand on his shoulder. "If she were a Tremontine girl, what would you do?"

Ilhovin shrugged. "I'd crook my finger."

"And if she resisted?"

"It's never happened, but if it did, I'd remind her who I was. But see here, Belleth, that won't work, we're equal in rank!"

"Ah, but not in all things! In the end, you are a man and she is a girl. You need to remind her of that incontrovertible fact, my lad. Remind her she's a girl and that eventually she must bow her proud head, and you'll have her."

Ilhovin looked at Henrik dubiously. "How many times has that worked for you?"

Henrik strolled into the lodge. "I've never had occasion to try it," he said smugly. "I pick easier targets than her highness."

Ilhovin sighed and followed him inside to the private drawing room set aside for him. On the table before the fire, a cold luncheon was spread--cold chicken, meat pies, cheese, bread and dried fruit. "I can't pretend to be smarter than she is, you know. I'm not exactly addle-brained, but she's brilliant," he continued, settling into a chair by the fire with a plate.

Henrik filled a plate and joined Ilhovin by the fire. They ate in silence. "You're over-thinking it," he finally said. "The one way in which almost every man is superior to almost every woman is physically. And listen, Hov, I've got four years on you. I can tell you categorically that women want to be overpowered. They love it."

"They do?"

"Which one of us is a devotee of the Lovers?"

"Well, you are, but--"

"Hov, if you want to get out of this place before Nerr's Day, I'm telling you," said Henrik, "you have to do something."

"I know, but I especially can't see Macca--what exactly do you mean by overpowering her?"

Henrik shrugged. "I don't know. Just show her who's the Heir."

A discreet knock stopped their conversation. "Beg pardon, your highness," said the chamberlain. "His majesty is ready to resume your discussions."

Ilhovin and Henrik hastily wiped their lips and fingers and followed the chamberlain into the king's study. He accepted a chair to Creithig's right and a goblet of wine from the attendant, who left the pitchers on the table and bowed himself out. In the room with Henrik and Ilhovin were Creithig and his chief counsellor Mellom and several lesser personages of both Tremont and Sairland, graybeards all.

"Ah, Prince Ilhovin! And how did the hunt go? Did Fleet catch us a little dainty for our dinner?"

"A grouse, your majesty," said Ilhovin with a small bow. "Your daughter's way with her bird is a sight to be seen."

"And your way with Macca? Any closer, are we?"

Ilhovin flushed. "My intentions are clear, King Creithig, but hers are not."

Creithig chuckled. "In time you will see your way to her. She likes you, no matter what you might think. Be patient, son. Now. As to the matter of our claim to Belleth, and Tremont's claim to the Far Isles--"

Ilhovin cleared his mind of Macca and focused on the task at hand.