MAGNUS WAS HAVING tea with Olympia and Fenleigh. "What if she says 'I don't' when it's time for her to say 'I do'?"
"I wouldn't put it past her," Olympia said speculatively, giving Fenleigh a triangular liver-salad sandwich, which he took in one gulp with a sinister snapping of teeth. "I'll tell her it'll cause her father to collapse or something. That should work."
"How is Uncle Swithbert?" Magnus asked. "I've always been dreadfully fond of him, you know. But he didn't look so good yesterday."
"He's very tired, the poor dear," Olympia said, with only the slightest hollow ring to her sympathetic tone. "I'm giving him something to help him rest. He'll need all his strength for the big day."
"You know, I heard Marigold could read people's minds, but I've touched her, and she doesn't seem to know what I'm thinking. Though I have tried to keep my mind full of pleasant, pure thoughts."
"I'm sure they've been totally sterilized," Olympia said, offering him a plate of eel-paste sandwiches. "Completely drained of all their juice."
She looked over at him, thinking what a shame it was that his handsome head was so completely unoccupied. It never even occurred to her that his handsome head truly was filled with pleasant bland thoughts. Still, she considered Magnus's head a lovely change from Swithbert's old gray one, which, unfortunately, had plenty in it, no matter what a bumbler he might appear. This was why he had needed so much of her special sedative for so long, and why he'd needed even more lately to make sure he didn't cause any trouble. She'd always known Marigold was his pet, and she wasn't taking any chances.
KING SWITHBERT lay on his pillow with his eyes closed. But he wasn't asleep. His brain and his ears were in full gear. He was thinking about how the potted frankincense tree in the corner of his bedchamber had dropped all its leaves in the two days he'd been watering it with the tonics Olympia brought him twice a day. And how much better he'd been feeling since the poor tree had taken a turn for the worse.
The last thing he'd heard very clearly from his bed was the sound of Marigold running down the hallway—his precious Marigold, the favorite of his daughters, even though he knew he shouldn't have a favorite. But the others had always seemed so foreign to him, so overwhelming, the three of them together all the time, so hard to know individually. Marigold and he, somehow they understood each other.
He'd heard heavy footsteps running after Marigold, too, which worried him. She was running from something, but it was following her. She was unhappy, and that hurt him. He could feel a tear begin in the corner of his heart when he thought of his precious Marigold so miserable.
Could he have made a mistake about Magnus? He'd seemed a harmless sort of chap, not too bright, but pleasant enough. Someone who could be a nice companion for Marigold, a good consort who wouldn't give her any problems and who would be grateful to have a home at last. Magnus had been a pathetic sort of little boy, orphaned early and passed around from relative to relative, always an outsider, drawing all those intricate maps. Swithbert knew that was Magnus's way of trying to find a place of his own in the world. Lucky for him he was a good-looking boy, which made him more acceptable among his royal relatives. And he'd always been so desperately eager to please, always looking for someone who wanted him, who would take his side. Swithbert had wanted to give him a home and family of his own at last. But maybe Marigold wouldn't feel so charitable about that when she was the one who had to be the actual sacrifice.
Still, he'd hoped that Magnus and Marigold might each fill the loneliness in the other. Because as much as he loved Marigold and admired her heart and her mind and her spunk, he knew she'd been a lonely girl, rebuffed by her mother and overlooked by everyone else when she was compared to the busy pack of her sisters. He didn't understand why everybody called her plain. To him, she was beautiful, but maybe that was because he could tell what her soul looked like.
As for her birth-gift, or her curse as some called it, well, he could see how it would bother other people, but it had never been a problem for him. It made him wonder what was going on in Olympia's mind, the way she had avoided touching Marigold for so many years. And what was she up to that she was so determined to keep him out of the way? What was it she was worried he might interfere with?
The king opened one eye. The maid assigned to watch over him was dozing in her chair, her mending sliding off her lap onto the floor.
He opened his other eye and sat up just as Denby, his valet, came into the bedchamber from the dressing room. Denby's eyebrows went up and his mouth fell open. Before he could say a word, Swithbert put a finger to his own lips, then beckoned him to come closer.
Denby came to the side of the bed, and Swithbert whispered into his ear, "Where's Marigold?"
Denby straightened up, conflict written all over his face.
Swithbert put his hands on his hips and glared at Denby, looking as frighteningly regal as it's possible to look in a wrinkled nightshirt with one's hair all rumpled up.
He mouthed: "Don't forget I'm the king around here."
Sighing, Denby bent down and said, "She's in the dungeon. Queen Olympia said she'd put me down there, too, if I told you."
"What?" Swithbert squeaked.
The maid stirred in her chair and then settled back into slumber, snoring in a ladylike manner.
Swithbert swung his legs over the side of the bed and pattered off to the dressing room, motioning for Denby to follow. He yanked a pair of breeches out of the cupboard and, hopping on one foot and then the other as he pulled them on, said, "What the heck's she doing in the dungeon? What's going on around here? Why doesn't Olympia get her out?" He fastened his pants, tucking his nightshirt into them as he shoved his feet into his shoes.
Denby cleared his throat, looking desperately uncomfortable.
"Well?" Swithbert insisted.
Denby cleared his throat again and said in a little voice, as if he could make his answer smaller, too, "Um. Queen Olympia's the one who put her there."
"This is outrageous!" Swithbert fumed. "Why on earth would her own mother ... well, we're going to get Marigold out. Let's go."
Swithbert strode out the rear door of the dressing room into the passageway, the tail of his nightshirt hanging out of his pants, with Denby scurrying along behind him.
16
The dungeon guard gaped and almost dropped his broadax. "Sire?" he stammered.
"Open the doors," Swithbert demanded. "And get out of my way."
"But, sire," the guard said, doing a little rumba of indecision, "Queen Olympia said no one's to come down here but her."
Swithbert drew himself up to his full height, which, though it wasn't very high, was enough to intimidate the guard. "I'm the king, in case you've forgotten, and my voice is bigger than hers. Now open those doors, or you'll be replacing my daughter in there." There are times, many of them, in which it is an advantage to appear addled, but this wasn't one of them.
The doors were flung open, and the guard rum-baed out of the way so fast he almost fell down.
Swithbert scampered down the stairs and hurried into the corridor, calling, "Marigold! Marigold! It's Papa. Where are you?"
"Papa!" came Marigold's voice. "I'm in here."
"Where's that guard?" Swithbert demanded of Denby. "Get him in here with the keys. We're staging a jailbreak."
"Not just me, Papa. I'm not in here alone."
"God's nightgown!" Swithbert said. "There hasn't been anybody in these cells for years, and now they're filling up. What's Olympia been up to while I've been in a fog? Who else is in here?"
"There's Christian, from the forest. And his foster father, Edric. And two dogs."
"Dogs?" Swithbert said. "My stars, Olympia's lost her marbles."
The guard came along, his arm in Denby's clutches. Swithbert yanked the key ring off his belt so violently that the buckle snapped and his uniform breeches headed south.
"Hey!" the guard yelped, dropping his broadax and grabbing his pants.
Swithbert unlocked Mari
gold's cell, and she fell into his arms. The king, looking over her shoulder, spotted the bowl of gruel that Marigold had been unable to eat.
"What the heck is that?" he asked.
"Gruel," she said. "It's what prisoners get to eat."
"It doesn't even look like it could be food," he said. "Come on. We're getting you something real to eat."
"You've got to let Chris out, too. And Ed, and the dogs."
"Now, sweetheart," Swithbert said, "you're not going to like this, but we'll have to leave them here. For the time being."
"Why?" demanded Marigold. "They haven't done anything."
"I'm going to have enough trouble keeping your breakout a secret from Olympia while I try to find out what's going on. I don't know how I can keep two more people—and some dogs, for heaven's sake—a secret. And I don't have time to figure it out. We have to get out of here now. But I promise you, I will come back for them just as soon as this mess is all straightened out."
"I'm not leaving Christian in here."
Swithbert seemed not to hear her. "Denby," he directed, "put this guard in Marigold's cell and then go see if the coast is clear. Tell the captain of the guards—Rollo, isn't it?—that you'll be the one bringing meals to the prisoners and coordinating the guard schedule. Nobody, including Rollo, has to know there won't be any guards. That way no one will know Marigold's gone." He stepped over to Christian and Ed's cell. "If my Marigold vouches for you, that's good enough for me. But you'll have to stay here just a little longer."
"No, Papa," Marigold insisted, holding on to the bars of Christian's cell. "They have to get out now."
Christian reached through the bars to run his finger along the smooth curve of her cheek. "It's all right. I'll be waiting for you. Don't forget me."
"Never," she said.
Oh my, thought Ed and Swithbert simultaneously.
Then Marigold and her father were gone. The only sound in the dungeon was the muttering of the guard in the next cell.
"Dang," he said. "The king broke my belt, and now I can't keep my britches on lest I hold them up with both hands."
As Marigold and Swithbert hurried along the palace corridors, Marigold informed her father, "We're going to go to Mother and tell her I'm not marrying Magnus, not on a bet, and that all the wedding guests should go home."
"You don't want to marry Magnus?" Swithbert was a bit breathless.
"I'd rather be boiled in oil. The kind with cholesterol," she said. "I'd rather be hanged by my thumbs. I'd rather be burned at the stake. I'd rather—"
"All right, all right," Swithbert said. "I get it. But why? What's wrong with Magnus? He's always seemed pleasant enough, and I know how much he needs love."
"That's the problem. I don't love him. I know that's not a requirement for royal marriages, but I ... well, I can't love him. I love somebody else."
"Somebody else?" But he wasn't as surprised as he made himself sound. He'd seen the looks that passed between Marigold and Christian. "Marigold, my dear," King Swithbert said, putting his arms around his baby, who suddenly seemed more grown-up than he was quite ready to let her be, "have I ever done anything to hurt you, or that wasn't in your best interest?" Even though he could see the handwriting on the wall, he wanted for just a little while longer to be the most important fellow in her life.
"Magnus—," she began.
"Besides Magnus," Swithbert said. "And that was from an apparently misguided concern about both of you."
"No," she had to admit. "You've never done anything to hurt me."
"And I won't now. Trust me. We'll get this straightened out."
BACK IN THE KING'S CHAMBERS, Denby smuggled Swithbert into bed while Marigold hid in the dressing room. Swithbert lay propped on his pillows, enjoying his enactment of a conked-out old geezer, while Denby awakened the maid and dismissed her, saying that he was perfectly capable of looking after someone who did nothing but sleep.
"But Queen Olympia says I'm to stay here," the maid wailed. "She won't like it if I don't. And you know how she can be when she's not happy."
"Then you tell her to come speak to me," Denby said.
"Oh, Denby," the maid answered. "I don't think you know what you're in for—no, you don't."
"You just tell her that. Now go along."
"She'll be coming in herself this evening to give His Majesty his bedtime drink, don't forget."
"No, indeed," Denby said solemnly, while Swithbert tried to keep from laughing at the lovely trick he was playing on Olympia.
After Marigold had finished telling him the whole story of her p-mailing with Christian and of the plot Olympia had in mind and how it affected the two of them, he no longer felt so jolly.
"I knew she never loved me," he said sadly. "That's how a lot of marriages—not just royal ones—start out, though often love grows, and I'd hoped for that. But I never thought she'd want to do me in. Or you, her own daughter. That's dreadful. And wicked."
"What are we going to do, Papa?"
"You can rest assured you won't be marrying Magnus tomorrow, that's the first thing. And your friend Christian will be getting a medal for uncovering the plot, that's the second."
"But what about Mother?"
"That's an excellent question. And one I don't know the answer to yet. I must think."
ALL OVER THE CASTLE, in that hour, people were thinking.
Christian puzzled over his contraption. And over Marigold.
Marigold thought about Christian. And Olympia.
Ed worried about missing the LEFT Conference and never getting his best shot at a slice of the tooth fairy business. Or at the red-haired maiden. His recent dungeon experience had persuaded him that opportunities for good things should be grabbed and not postponed. You never knew when you wouldn't be around anymore. He'd never get anywhere if he just sat around cooling his thumbs.
Bub and Cate wondered what Christian was trying to get them to do.
Olympia changed clothes time after time and concentrated on keeping all her balls in the air: arranging the wedding, keeping Swithbert out of the way, deciding what method of extermination to use on Ed and Christian once they'd been convicted of treason, and being charming to her many guests.
Swithbert and Marigold sought a solution to the problems of Olympia and Magnus.
Marigold's sisters, Calista, Tatiana, and Eve, all worried about what they would wear to the wedding that would please their mother enough to keep her off their backs. Now that they had their own kingdoms and the power to arrange their lives to suit themselves, they recognized how little they wanted to be the kind of wife and mother that Olympia had been. Getting away from her had freed them to be smarter and more sensible than she'd ever given them credit for being. Mostly, she'd been interested in how they looked, which had always been spectacular, even though Olympia could invariably find some fault. Oddly, since leaving home, they all seemed even more beautiful, in a ripe, fully realized way.
Rollo decided to take a troop of soldiers across the river to search the troll's cave for evidence they could use to seal the fate of Edric and his girlfriend-stealing pal.
Magnus tried to participate in all the festivities while wondering what it would be like to be married to someone he had so little in common with. Oh, it would be wonderful to have his own home, but what would they talk about? What would they do together? He'd never finished a book in his whole life, and she had at least one with her at all times. He loved to fish—maybe she did, too—and he loved drawing elegant maps that showed where the rivers and forests and dragons and sea serpents were; maybe he could interest her in that. But he was afraid of dogs and she had three. He knew he really was a shy and simple person, and Marigold was anything but. It just didn't seem as if it could possibly work for either of them—and that was even without considering Olympia, his terrifying mother-in-law-to-be.
The wedding guests thought only of the next meal, the next entertainment, the next amusement. They were there for a good time, weren't they?
17
Rollo and his soldiers ransacked the cave, not even stopping to admire the gorgeous light that filtered through the crystals. Walter and Carrie perched in a candleberry tree outside the cave and watched, their heads cocked quizzically.
The soldiers couldn't understand why there was so much stuff in the cave: piles of clothing and piles of tools, shelves of books and rows of boots, all carefully segregated by type. It was the racks of weapons that firmly convinced Rollo that an insurrection was under way. The boots and clothing and other things must belong to the insurrectionists—and from the looks of things, there were a lot of them.
"No clues as to where his army is hiding," Rollo said, "but we can prevent a tragedy by confiscating these weapons. Anybody find anything else suspicious?"
"This band sure has a lot of junk," a soldier said. "Lucky this cave has so many rooms to put it in. There's a whole room of left gloves!"
"Is there one of right gloves?" asked another soldier.
"Not that I've found yet. There's a chest full of forks and right next to it is a chest full of jewelry, as if forks and jewels were equal in value. I can't figure out the system."
"You think this is important?" a soldier asked Rollo, showing him the wickerwork hamper with the napkin-wrapped bundle in it. "Seems funny, just this one little thing in the hamper when every other container in the place is stuffed full."
Rollo unwrapped the napkin, revealing the little blue velvet suit. It had been untouched for so long that it had begun to split along the folds. As Rollo shook it out, a tiny tinkle made him look in one of the pockets. He held up the chain, still as golden and shiny as the day Ed had put it there, and examined the charm hanging from it.
"Holy buckets!" he said. "We've got to tell somebody about this! That troll is in a lot more trouble than we even knew. He's a murderer!"