Melora glanced out the window slit to see Sir Mador striding through the gardens. He looked like a hawk with a duck in its talons. Melora picked the fraying hem of her gown. Prince Orlando must have jumped at the chance to prove his skill. Eloquent, dandyish Mador was just the sort of man everyone challenged, despite his formidable size. They never guessed Mador was one of the best swordsmen at court.
"My lady!" Mador caught sight of her and walked over. "I have done as you bid me." He frowned. "Come away from the shadows; they veil your lovely face."
Melora forced a smile as she slipped into the faint light. "You flatter overmuch, but I thank you Mador." She inclined her head. "If you'll excuse me." It was better to get out now, before he started his usual repertoire of compliments.
Melora slowed to the more stately tread of a princess as soon as Mador was round the corner. It wouldn't do for everyone to see her tearing through the halls at this hour. Melora nodded to a passing couple and tried to still her breathing. Mador was a prince, an elegant, attractive young man of skill and learning, but that told her little of him. That description fit most men in her father's court.
On returning from the stables, Orlando found a stranger waiting in his rooms. A tall man with gnarled skin and twiggy fingers sat on Orlando's mattress, his matted gray head bowed. Orlando cleared his throat, wondering where he'd seen the man. "Good morning."
"Good morning." The man's voice was rough and deep. "Orlando, son of Gustavus?"
Orlando shifted from foot to foot, "Yes. And you are?"
"Myrddin, chief advisor to King Arthur." Myrddin raised his head and studied Orlando with wild gold eyes.
That was where I saw him. Orlando remembered how the famous mage had stood close by but behind the king, watching each petitioner with interest.
"The name means nothing?" The mage cocked a shaggy brow.
Orlando started. "Oh, no, my lord Myrddin. Even in Thessaly, we have heard of your mighty deeds. To what do I owe this honor?"
The man scanned Orlando, as if he were a mouse and the mage a hawk deciding if it were hungry. Orlando tried not to squirm, holding the molten gaze as his eyes began to burn.
"You are a strong lad," murmured the mage at last, leaning back with a creaking sigh. "And reckless. Your future is dark in my eyes." His shaggy brows met in a frown.
Orlando stiffened. "I am no child; I am not afraid. What do you see?"
The mage's laugh was hard. "All are young to me–who is not? I see only danger ahead of you. Or perhaps," he cocked his head, "within you. Beware."
"I am not afraid," repeated Orlando, and it was true.
"The young rarely are; 'tis their foolish gift." The mage's stare went vacant. "Good day." He rose to his feet and shuffled past Orlando, leaving a chill behind him.
Orlando remained frozen in thought, wondering how he'd somehow affronted the mage.
Melora retreated to her mending, not emerging until supper. At the table, the Prince of Thessaly watched Melora with an intensity that made her flush. She could hardly concentrate, and when Mador was seated beside her offering courtesy after courtesy, she lost her appetite entirely.
Rude, she thought, meeting Orlando's bold gaze. She was further perturbed when he grinned, instead of dropping his eyes like a polite man should. Anger diffused her shame and Melora turned to Mador, attempting to look intent on what he was saying.
"The tourney ," he proclaimed, "should be fine, the weather looks likely. A bit cold for my taste, but it will spur us to greater exertions, fighting to be warm!"
"Naturally," murmured Melora, restraining her impulse to wince at his volume.
"And you, my lady," Sir Mador's voice softened, "will you favor one of these with your colors?" He frowned. "Mayhap is too bold a question, but I ..."
Melora forced a smile. "'Tis not too bold, good sir. I will probably favor one of my cousins, as I usually do." Melora had never given her colors another, lest the gossip turn to her.
"Ah," Mador's brown eyes flickered with disappointment, but he shrugged, "You are fond of them, 'tis well known."
Melora sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Orlando left the hall early and was relieved to find his room empty. By the time he was ready for bed, Horace delivered his armor and freshly sharpened sword.
"That should be all, Highness," Horace stacked the armor beside Orlando's mattress.
Orlando squinted at the scroll he was studying. "Do we have any apples left?"
Horace made a face. "After all of that rich food?"
"I wasn't hungry." Orlando pondered the shaky script that trailed across the parchment like cracks in glass. Whoever copied this should be exiled.
Horace rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Aren't you always starving?"
"I wasn't hungry," repeated the prince. "I am now."
"She's a lovely girl," ventured Horace, his bright eyes scanning the sullen face of his master, "but you shouldn't stare at her so. Her glances aren't as kindly."
Orlando scowled. "I wasn't staring because she was pretty. She's tall and grim, her nose is too long and her hair is very red. You know, I don't think she likes me." He wondered if she ever smiled.
Horace guffawed, which resulted in Orlando tossing the scroll at his head. "Say what you will, but I've known too many young men to think otherwise." His laughter trailed out the door followed by Orlando's boot, which thudded into the wood with a startling report.
A dreamless sleep made Melora more cheerful on rising. The sun was just fingering her window and the metallic clangs of practice swords heralded the afternoon's sport. Melora slipped out of bed and scrubbed her face with the icy water from her basin. Washing complete, she leaned against the cool stone ledge of her window. She spotted Gawain across the yard, his hair aflame with morning sun.
Below her, a lone swordsman walked to a trampled square of grass and pulled out his sword. He balanced on his toes like a cat, striking straw dummies with sure, swift movements. Craning her neck, Melora saw he was one of the swarthy Mediterranean folk, but not Mador. Melora had witnessed Mador's brutal hacking during competitions and would recognize it anywhere.
This was a Thessalian, she decided, of rank to know swordsmanship, so Orlando? His elegant blows would be crushed by one of the many knights in the tourney. They'd slice through Orlando's guard as they might a pudding. For that matter, they might cut through his head.
Melora went to the chest at the head of her mattress, where she kept Amhar's first sword and armor. He'd been a boy of fourteen at the time and quickly outgrown the armor, carelessly leaving it to his eager younger sister. Melora opened the chest and inhaled the musty scent of leather, the sharp odor of metal, and the oily tang of the grease preserving each precious item.
Their mother had hated how Amhar dressed young Melora up like a knight, sparring with her on the very square below Melora's window. When the queen protested to Arthur, the king had laughed and said to let them be. After Amhar's passing, the king continued Melora's lessons. Still, it had been a year since Melora had dared to don the armor. Gwynevere hadn't liked it then, and she surely wouldn't now that Melora was a marriageable sixteen.
Melora slithered out of her dress and pulled breeches and a loose undershirt out of the chest. Next came a quilted vest, and then a stiff leather jerkin that laced on the sides. Melora gasped as the jerkin squeezed her chest and focused on breathing. She'd grown since she last put these clothes on. Still, it was so tight no one could mistake her for a girl.
Melora slipped a coarse brown surcoat over her jerkin, leaving Amhar's silk blue one in the bottom of the trunk. The blue had matched his eyes, and Melora couldn't look at it. She pulled out the braces, greaves, sword, belt, and helmet and let the lid slam shut.
Look at me, she glanced at the dark ceiling and sighed. What am I thinking? Melora creaked and clinked to her feet, then buckled her belt over the surcoat with trembling fingers. She might as well be a committed fool. It was time to see what Prince Orlando was made of.
Orlando took a deep breath and ran through the paces his trainer had bashed into his head. The prince had yet to challenge any of the others doing the same thing across the crowded yard. He'd wanted to concentrate, and picked this solitary spot because of the shade and its emptiness.
Orlando shook his hair back and scowled as sweat spattered his nose. "Stupid helmets," he growled as he tried to wipe his face off through the small openings in his Grecian helm. He slammed his training sword into his sheath and yanked off his helmet, tossing it aside.
"Quite the temper," remarked a tinny voice across the way.
A knight with a full helm and a drab brown surcoat lurked in the Hall's shadows. Orlando glared at the stranger, wondering how long he'd been watching unannounced. The prince cleared his throat. "And to whom am I speaking?"
"No one of note, your Highness." The knight bowed low. "I am a knight errant, and cannot give my name." His voice was raspy, but high like a boy's.
Orlando studied the lad's stature and moderate height and wondered if it was one of the squires come to make sport of him. Orlando lifted his chin and glared down his nose at the intruder. "Go back to your master, or whomever you stole that armor from."
The boy drew his sword. "On my honor as a knight, I challenge you, Orlando of Thessaly, for those words."
Hearing the raw anger in the boy's voice, Orlando felt a twinge of regret. He had been a boy himself, not so long ago. He might have pulled this sort of lark. Nevertheless, refusing a challenge would still shame him.
Orlando replaced his helmet and drew his sword. "Do you really want to do this?"
"My honor demands it," the boy's shrill tone turned sly, "as does my lord's." He bowed again and raised his blade.
Melora glared through her helmet as she circled Orlando. Let him think she was an unlearned child. She'd show him. She clenched her sword with sweaty gloved fingers.
Orlando swung at her and she lifted her sword, parrying his thrust and dancing back. He advanced, and she returned another jab. After several turns, it was clear that the prince didn't view this as a real fight.
He's doing this for me! Melora realized with annoyance. What an arrogant mongrel. Melora slashed out with vigor and took Orlando by surprise. He hardly raised his blade before her sword whistled toward his chest.
"It's just a practice," objected Orlando, his dark eyes wide.
"Then practice blocking." Melora swung her blade and jabbed his arm. "First hit, mine."
Orlando gaped at the rude boy, wondering where this thundering attack had come from. He didn't have time to consider it, for the boy's slashes hailed down in gusts. It was all Orlando could do to deflect one before the next came. Orlando countered with his full strength; let the boy learn respect. Anger melted Orlando's kinder sentiments.
Melora's arms jerked as Orlando's blade crushed hers into the grass. She yanked it up in time to deflect his next blow, her arms tingling. Melora skittered back, loath to take the full force of Orlando's arm again. Despite his lovely curls and lithe frame, Orlando was strong. Half the size of Gawain or Kay, Orlando was equally skilled, and Melora had angered him.
She skipped back from yet another blow, catching Orlando's blade as it returned and nearly knocking it from his grasp. She grinned and twirled her practice blade.
"Quick but cowardly," snapped the prince, his breath gusting through his helmet.
"I don't mean to be smashed by superior strength," retorted Melora.
"With all your frog-hopping, you won't be," Orlando glared at her as she deflected another blow. "Who taught you to fight?"
Melora bounced back, barely deflecting his next heavy slash. "Several people, but most of it is my own." A girl fighting grown men needed every advantage she could get.
"I should have guessed," muttered Orlando. "I don't recognize anything." He feinted left and flicked Melora's handguard with the tip of his sword.
Melora yelped as her sword jumped in her hand. "Not fair!" She regained her grasp as his next blow came, deflecting it and rolling right to slash at his shoulder.
Orlando slammed her blade with even greater force, making her trip over a nub in the grass. She staggered back, her arm screaming at her as she slammed into the wall. Melora's breath hissed like a snake as she toppled to her knees.
Orlando had swung his sword harder than he'd intended, his aim cast awry by the flash of green eyes under his opponent's helm. Startled, he watched the boy tumble toward the Red Hall, smacking the wall with a clang of metal and swish of leather.
Orlando sheathed his blade. "Saint's blood," he swore as he knelt beside the boy. "Are you all right?" He grabbed the boy's helmet by the visor and tore it off. Long red hair tumbled down to cover the pale face of Melora, Arthur's daughter.
"By Zeus," breathed Orlando, staring in horror at the gasping princess. He fell to his knees. "My lady, I am so sorry." He bowed his head. "I relinquish my sword to you. I have acted dishonorably."
Melora squinted, trying to understand the fuzzy buzzing of Orlando's voice. He was apologizing, and she realized that he'd taken her helmet. "For the love of Heaven," she gasped, "I knew what I was doing."
Orlando gaped at her. "Whatever possessed you?"
Melora shoved her hair from her face. "I wanted to test you myself."
Orlando leapt to his feet. "What strange country is this? Princesses do battle and shame their guests?"
Melora glowered up at him. "What shame is there in fighting an armed opponent?"
"You are a lady, and a princess, and you did not reveal yourself. Not that I would have fought you." Orlando's contrition was quickly turning to anger. He glared at her, but still extended a hand.
Melora snatched up her sword and let him haul her to her feet. "Perhaps, perhaps not, but I fought you, and rather well, until I tripped." She flushed, her head throbbing. "That wasn't supposed to happen." She rubbed her arm and frowned. "Ouch."
Orlando crossed his arms over his chest. "That was foolish. You are skilled, but such deceit and trickery is not fitting of anyone. What would your father have done had I hurt you?" He raked his fingers through his hair and backed away. "Dishonor, I must leave at once."
Melora opened her mouth, then pressed her lips back together as she contemplated the prince's words. Unfortunately, he had a point. "Orlando! Wait."
He turned back, his black eyes haughty. "My lady."
"I'm sorry." She picked up her helmet. "And you haven't lost any honor, that's ridiculous. But," she cocked her head, "I see you're as strong as Gawain, at least."
Orlando wrinkled his nose. "You think? I mean, that it wasn't dishonorable?"
Melora shrugged. "You didn't know who I was."
Orlando gave her a wary look, then glanced around to make sure they were still alone. "And you won't tell anyone?"
Melora rolled her eyes. "All women are not gossips, your Highness."
Orlando stiffened again. "I did not mean that."
Melora frowned. "T'was in jest. Of course I won't tell anyone!"
"Good." Orlando's bow was so rigid Melora expected to hear his spine crack. He backed away, his cheeks inflamed. "I beg your leave."
Melora followed, trying to think of something she could say to ease his discomfort.
They were interrupted by Gawain, who rounded the Hall and stopped at the sight of them. "Melora, by the Lady, what are you doing?"
Melora flinched, and saw Orlando do the same. "I, well..."
Gawain looked from Orlando's stricken expression to Melora's sheepish one. "Playing a trick on poor Orlando, I suppose." He scowled. "Have you learned nothing? Your father would be appalled. What a way to treat a guest! The poor devil's yellow with shock. What must he think of our hospitality?"
Orlando glanced at the cousins. Melora was clenching and unclenching her fists, and Gawain looked ready to thrash her right there.
Orlando supposed it was time to intervene. "She wields a sword as she plays the harp, much skill and more grace. I'm terribly impressed." He avoided Melora's gaze altogether. "And if she is well, there is harm done. But since I have now lost my first opponent, I wouldn't mind sparring with you, Sir Gawain, if you would honor me. I have heard much of your skill, and such feats can hardly as be believed."
Gawain gave Melora another sharp look before drawing his practice sword. "The honor is mine, your Highness."
Orlando saluted Gawain and drew his own blade. He saw Melora sheath her sword out of the corner of his eye. Her face was red as her hair, but her expression still aloof. Orlando sighed inwardly as his blade collided with Gawain's, but he was soon distracted by the other man's incredible strength.
Melora retreated as quickly as dignity would allow. Her mind was a cyclone of feelings. What must Orlando think of me, and Gawain? Orlando's horror had both offended and alarmed her. Still, part of Melora was glad, and proud, that she'd done it.
Nonetheless, she felt stupid for tripping and falling. That was unpardonable. Melora hurried into her rooms before anyone could see her. She stripped off Amhar's armor and plopped onto her bed. Orlando must think her a brazen hussy. She'd have to do something to make it up to him. After all, he'd saved her from a tussle with Gawain, and the Thessalian was the most elegant swordsman she'd ever met. Arthur had spoken highly of the prince, another point in Orlando's favor.
Favor! It struck her, the perfect reparation. Melora bolted up and scrabbled around in her trunk. Her emerald sash with the embroidered royal dragon was crumpled at the very bottom. She bound it around the arm of a cousin each tourney. The favor of a princess, even a sly, brash one, might soothe the honor of an offended prince. And it wouldn't hurt to cool Mador's ardor just a bit.
Melora wound the sash into a loop and set it aside. As soon as she was dressed, she would find Orlando, and present him with the sash and an apology.