Once In a Blue Moon Read online

  “I’m not hungry,” said Catherine. “I’ll try something later, I promise. I’m just not in the mood.”

  She looked out over the bustling crowds, making more and more noise as they increased in size. People were still flooding in, taking their seats or filling up the standing enclosures. They all seemed cheerful enough. Catherine wanted to shout at them. How dare they be so happy, so unconcerned, when someone had tried to kill her? The crowds didn’t even glance at her, or Richard. They were waiting for the fights to start. A little action, a little blood . . . high drama and low comedy, and always a chance to see some hated aristo make an arse of himself. But none of the Big Names or Major Players had emerged from their separate tents yet. They understood the importance of keeping the crowds waiting, to build the anticipation and make a good entrance. Treat them mean, keep them keen. When you got right down to it, the Grand Tourney was all about show business, and everyone knew it.

  Richard sat back on his fake throne and considered the Princess thoughtfully. He couldn’t think of a single useful thing to do or say that would cheer her up or make her feel any better, so he sensibly decided to just leave her alone. The Prince and the Princess sat side by side, looking out over the Tourney, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Nothing much was happening yet. And from the look of it, nothing was going to go on happening for some time yet. So eventually they ended up talking to each other anyway, because there was nothing else to do.

  “The woman who was poisoned in my place,” said Catherine. “I forget her name . . .”

  “Lady Melanie Drayson,” Richard said kindly. “I’ve arranged for her family to be looked after. She left a husband and two small children. None of what happened was Melanie’s fault, or theirs. I’ll see they have every support we can offer.”

  Catherine looked at him properly for the first time. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I did,” said Richard. “That’s my job, as Prince—to look after my subjects.”

  Catherine thought about that for a while. “My father wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t even have occurred to him that he should.” She glanced at him, almost shyly. “You know, you’re not at all what I expected.”

  Richard had to smile. “All right, I’ll bite. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know! I suppose . . . I wanted you to be someone I could hate.”

  “You left someone behind in Redhart, didn’t you?” said Richard.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “All sorts of interested parties, from both our countries, have made it a point to tell me all sorts of things that they thought I ought to know,” said Richard. “For a great many reasons. Who was he?”

  “Malcolm Barrett,” said Catherine almost defiantly. “King William’s Champion. A great warrior. We’d been in love since we were children. As soon as we were old enough to know what love was.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Richard. “I do know the man by reputation. We may even have crossed swords, out in the disputed territories. We were both fighting on the border at the same time. But it’s hard to be sure who you’re facing, in the middle of a melee.”

  “Did you . . . have anyone?” said Catherine.

  “No,” said Richard. “There’s never been anyone special, anyone who mattered . . . I kept waiting, kept looking, expecting someone would come along eventually who’d make my heart beat that little bit faster. But . . . I suppose I just never met the right Princess.”

  That was a step too far. Catherine withdrew back inside herself immediately, staring out across the crowds. Richard sighed inwardly and changed the subject.

  “Parliament is holding an extended Sitting, right now, talking through the arrangements for the wedding. Pushing everything through in a rush. I did offer to elope—just you and me and some village priest, in a quiet little church somewhere . . . But they all went very pale and couldn’t seem to get their breath, so I pretended I was just joking. Apparently, the Forest and Redhart wedding ceremonies are very different, and we have to use all the right bits from both countries or it doesn’t count.”

  “All of this . . . haste,” said Catherine. “Because I won’t be properly safe, until I’m married to you.” She still wasn’t looking at him.

  “Well . . . yes,” said Richard.

  She turned abruptly to face him, her face cold, holding his gaze with hers. “How do you really feel about marrying me, Richard?”

  “You do know . . . I have no more choice in this than you,” Richard said carefully. “Part of being a Prince is that sometimes you just have to do things, no matter how you feel about them. Duty and responsibility and honour, and all that. I have been . . . thinking about us. And the marriage. It came as a bit of a shock. I’m sure you felt the same way. I always thought I’d have more time . . . But your safety has to come first. We can sort everything else out, afterwards.”

  Catherine’s mouth twitched in something approaching a smile. “You really think it’s going to be that easy?”

  “Honestly? Hell, no!”

  And they both shared a real smile for a moment.

  “What will your Malcolm do, back in Redhart?” Richard said carefully.

  “Nothing,” said Catherine. “He knows his duty. He’ll probably even try to be happy for me.” She leaned over to Richard, so they could speak very quietly and not be overheard. “I’ve been thinking about one thing; we’re going to have to have sex, aren’t we?”

  Richard did his best to keep a straight face. “It is rather expected of us, once we’re married. Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about it?” Catherine said bluntly. “I mean, I understand the basics, but . . . I never actually . . . My father put this spell on me so I couldn’t . . .”

  “Same here,” Richard said quickly. “I quite understand. All part of protecting the Royal bloodline . . . So, you and Malcolm, you never . . .”

  “I couldn’t even undo my blouse for him,” said Catherine. “Or undo anything of his. For fear of setting off all kinds of alarms.”

  “I have read a number of books on the subject,” said Richard. “And looked at some very detailed pictures . . .”

  They both grinned at each other.

  “Maybe you could show me some of these books later,” said Catherine. “Particularly the ones with pictures. If we’ve got to do this, I want to get it right.”

  “My father always said marriage would be a learning experience,” Richard said solemnly.

  “At least I’ll get something out of this,” said Catherine.

  They both sat back on their thrones and looked down into the jousting lane, as the Big Names and the Major Players finally deigned to come out of their tents and parade before the ecstatic crowds. The onlookers went crazy, shouting and screaming and waving at their favourites, and throwing handfuls of rose petals over them. (Rose petals were always made available at the merchandising stalls, at very reasonable prices.) Sir Russell Hardacre was out in front, as usual—a tall, dashing fellow, always ready with a brisk no-nonsense smile. The only titled Bladesmaster in the Forest Land, he’d had his chain mail dyed in his family colours of red and purple. Right behind him came the most-discussed magic-user in the Land, Dr. Strangely Weird. High Magic, of course. Then came Sir Kay, the famous young master of the joust, his true identity hidden behind a featureless steel helm. A helm Sir Kay had sworn never to remove, unless he was defeated. And since he hadn’t lost a jousting match since he entered the seasonal Tourneys, his secret identity remained . . . much discussed. He was young and fashionably slender and full of nervous energy, bouncing along in the parade and waving happily at everyone. Right behind him came Hannah Hexe, a calm, serene, and very powerful witch. One of the notorious Sisters of the Moon, graduated from what most people now called the Night Academy. She was, perhaps not surprisingly, not as popular or as loudly cheered as the others. And still the Big Names and famous faces came: Roger Zell, the Wandering Hero. Tom Tom Paladin, who roamed the Land doing goo
d deeds, in penance for his awful past. Stefan Solomon, Master of the Morningstar. And many, many more. A few hours in the main fighting circles would soon whittle them down to the few really worth seeing.

  Prince Richard and Princess Catherine watched the parade pass by with practiced smiles, and then they both looked around as Lady Gertrude came bustling up the steps to join them, in a flurry of petticoats and a stream of apologies. She elbowed the food-taster out of the way and sank heavily down into the chair beside Catherine, fanning herself with a painted paper fan while she struggled to get her breath back. She’d clearly been buying all sorts of attractive and useless things from the stalls, given the full to bulging bag she’d dumped at her feet. She soon caught her breath and began to chatter happily at Catherine while completely ignoring Richard.

  “The political people have been running me ragged, my sweet, making sure all the details of the marriage ceremony are correct. So many questions! I thought I’d never get away, my poppet . . .”

  Catherine frowned, just a bit dangerously. “I thought that was all settled!”

  “Oh it is, it is, my petal. Absolutely nothing at all for you to be worried about! It’s just . . . apparently they thought they had plenty of time to work it all out. But you and the Prince bringing the marriage forward so suddenly has changed everything. Caught them on the hop, so to speak. I’ve left them to it. Running round in circles, waving their hands in the air, trying to do a dozen things at once and then putting the blame on one another when it all goes wrong.” She stopped and smiled demurely. “I may have made up a few things, added some details that weren’t strictly needed, or accurate. Just to get my own back. If they took all of my little additions seriously, my sweet, you’re going to have a very interesting ceremony. And where they’re going to find a black goat with one bent horn at this time of the year . . . Anyway, the wedding is set for tomorrow. Definitely. Nothing at all for you to worry yourself about, my Princess.”

  “I’m more worried about where Sir Jasper is,” said Catherine. “And what he’s getting up to. I brought him here to stick with me, not go wandering off sightseeing. Have you seen him today, Gertrude?”

  Lady Gertrude sniffed loudly. “No, and I can’t say I miss him. Walking through walls like that, without even knocking! He may be dead, but there’s still such a thing as propriety!”

  Richard leaned forward. “The ghost isn’t with you? Do I understand he’s just been . . . wandering around the Castle on his own, all this time?”

  “Is that a problem?” said Catherine, immediately ready to be offended on her friend’s behalf.

  “Not as such,” Richard said carefully. “But it’s really not a good idea. Forest Castle is still full of . . . surprises for the unready.”

  “How much trouble can a ghost get into?” said Catherine.

  “In this Castle?” said Richard. “I hate to think . . . I’ll send some of my people to look for him if he hasn’t turned up by the end of the Tourney. Perhaps I should take him to the Castle Library, see if we can find some record of who he used to be, who his family were. Or maybe still is. He might have living descendants that we could track down for him. I mean, family still matters, even if one of them is dead.”

  Gertrude snorted loudly. “Good luck with that introduction.”

  “Hush, Gertrude,” said Catherine. “That’s a very kind thought, Richard.”

  And then they all looked across at the opposite raked seating, on the other side of the jousting lane, where the Seneschal was struggling to get King Rufus settled. At first the King walked straight past the throne set out for him, and almost off the end of the stand before the Seneschal caught up with him. He brought the King back to the throne, where the King decided he didn’t like the cushion provided, and threw it away. He demanded that they send back to the Castle for his favourite cushion. The Seneschal very politely pointed out that the cushion he’d just thrown away was, in fact, his favourite cushion, which was why the Seneschal had placed a servant nearby to catch it, and here it was again, so would his majesty please sit down, before the Seneschal had one of his heads? The King accepted the cushion, plumped it up himself, and set it carefully in place before finally agreeing to sit down. He fidgeted with his ceremonial robes, seeing that they fell about him just so, but at least left the crown alone. Possibly because he’d forgotten he was wearing it. He looked around him with great interest at everything that was happening, completely ignoring the Seneschal’s attempts to interest him in the speech he had to make to officially open the Grand Tourney. He finally spotted Richard and Catherine, sitting right opposite him, and brightened up a little. The Prince and Princess bowed formally to the King, who smiled and waved back at them, like a child on an outing.

  “Your majesty, please!” said the Seneschal. “We have to talk about your speech!”

  “What speech?” said the King. “Who am I meeting?”

  “You’re not meeting anyone in particular, Sire,” the Seneschal said patiently. “You have to address the combatants, and welcome the crowds, and declare this year’s Grand Tourney officially open.”

  “I see. Yes. And you are . . . ?”

  “The Seneschal!”

  “Bless you!”

  The Seneschal glared at the King. “If I ever find out you’re putting that on . . . Let us please discuss the speech, your majesty. I’ve got the scrolls.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said the King.

  “Those new pills definitely aren’t working . . .”

  “Don’t push your luck, Seneschal,” said the King, fixing him with a remarkably steady eye. “The moat still needs cleaning out . . .”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  The King sighed heavily, in his most put-upon way. “All right, show me the speech. What does it say?”

  “You wrote it last night, Sire, with my help,” said the Seneschal. “It’s all written down for you; just say the words, smile at the right places, which I’ve marked for you, acknowledge the cheers of the crowd with a brisk wave of the hand . . . and then you can sit back and watch the events. You always enjoy that.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  The King looked dubiously at the scroll the Seneschal had given him. He unrolled it slowly, being careful not to crack the parchment with his shaking hands. He read it through, carefully, and then let the scroll roll itself up again.

  “Same bullshit as the year before,” he said. “Only the names change. Look at them, prancing about, preening themselves, basking in the adulation of the crowds. If they were real heroes they’d be up on the border, doing something useful with these martial skills they’re so proud of. I know, I know; don’t rush me. I have to be in the right mood for this. It’s not easy being Royal, you know. Not when your back’s killing you, and you’ve had to get up in the night five times to take a piss! I swear my bladder’s ageing twice as fast as the rest of me.”

  He stood up abruptly. The nearby trumpeters took this as their cue, and launched into the Royal fanfare with great verve and gusto. Everyone fell silent, crowds and contestants alike, as they all looked up to their King. The Seneschal crossed his fingers behind his back. But King Rufus stood tall and proud, and read every word from the scroll with Royal authority and dignity. He spoke clearly and fluently, pronounced all the names correctly, and declared the Grand Tourney open in ringing tones. The contestants bowed to him and the crowd applauded fiercely, cheering their King at the top of their voices. King Rufus bowed gravely to them, waved a hand, and sat down again. The Seneschal allowed himself a breath of relief. Some days he thought these public excursions took more out of him than they did out of the King. Because there would come a day when the King wouldn’t pull it together at the last moment . . . The King carefully rolled up the scroll, thrust it into the Seneschal’s waiting hands, and settled back on his throne for a nice doze.

  The Big Names and Major Players returned to their private tents, to prep
are themselves. Everyone else got the hell out of the way as the armoured knights manoeuvred their giant chargers into position at the opposite ends of the jousting lane. Jousting was always popular with the crowds. Two men in full armour, planted on oversized horses, charged straight at each other with long wooden lances, each hoping to unseat his opponent before the other’s lance punched him right out of his saddle. There was nothing the crowds liked better than the chance to see some overconfident aristocrat get dumped on his arse in public.

  There was a lot to see: the horses pounding up and down in their highly coloured vestments, churning the earth into mud and filling the air with the pungent smells of sweat and dung. The knights, hunched down in their saddles, trying to make themselves as small a target as possible, which given how much armour they were wearing was a lost cause in itself. Some just rocked in their saddle as the lance slammed home, while others flew through the air in an ungainly fashion, to make a hard landing in the churned-up mud. Sometimes they got up straightaway, and sometimes they didn’t. Blood, broken bones, and rattled brains were commonplace among the jousting fraternity. Most of them would gather together afterwards for some competitive hard drinking, and to compare wounds and old scars. And swap as many tall stories as they could get away with. The ones who got up quickly enough would earn cheers from the crowd, while those who were carted off the field on reinforced stretchers received even more cheers, and not a few waspish comments.

  But as the jousts wore on, no obvious winner emerged. The successful knight of one joust would be unhorsed in the next, and so it went . . . until Sir Kay appeared. The young knight in the featureless steel helm thundered up and down the lists, taking on all comers and throwing them this way and that. He ducked and rolled in the saddle, somehow always dodging or deflecting the oncoming lance, while his own never wavered, slamming home every time. The crowd cheered his every triumph, and Sir Kay saluted them with his lance as he cantered back to the start to do it all again. The crowd loved that. Catherine quietly asked Richard if he knew who Sir Kay really was, behind his helm, and Richard had to admit that he didn’t. Sir Kay appeared only at Tourneys, under his assumed name. Everyone assumed him to be the younger son of some minor line, trying to make a name for himself. In his own way, Sir Kay was as much a mystery as the Sombre Warrior was. Though somewhat less gloomy. Catherine tried not to giggle. But this was Sir Kay’s first Grand Tourney, after two years of establishing his name at the seasonal tourneys. Much was expected of him. Everyone saw great things in his future. If he didn’t get himself killed.