* * * * *
It was one of the most sensational feasts ever prepared for human consumption, with vast platters piled high with sweet baby squirrels, fried crispy and glazed with honey and mustard; plump swans roasted whole, stuffed with sparrows, spaniels, wild berries and nuts; enormous pies of blonde crumbling pastry, containing badgermeat, porpoise, chickpeas and mountain goat, minced with rare herbs and shot through with spice; curried turtle, with crushed ginger and thyme, spooned straight from the shell and drizzled with yoghurt; spit-roasted barn owl, sautéed with nettles and onion; whole sacks of potatoes, boiled and steaming, swimming in butter and flavoured with dandelion; a vat of thick stew, with the meat of a dozen young rabbits, six venomous serpents, and a large, lazy horse, mushrooms, carrots, banana stock and bluebeans; warm loaves of bread stacked high and handy, smothered in cheese, sugar and charcoal; a male gryphon caught fresh just that day ? plucked, skinned and broiled in parsley and vinegar, served with whole husks of corn and rich chilli jam; a huge pot of rice, cooked plump and cut through with stewed apple, baked hog's ear and saffron; and the gamey, poached buttocks of the village dwarves, dished up with a milky sauce of peppercorns, basil, gruyère and gin.
The dinner party rambled on for hours, starting in the glow of early afternoon sunshine and carrying on long after the dark blanket of nightfall had draped over the land like a silver cloak. One thousand balletic shadows were cast on the wall by the blaze of candles; mugs were drained and re-filled, over and again. Bones were cracked, skin was torn, and the guests' fingers were licked in anticipation of the next plate.
At one end of the huge table sat a young man whose cheeks were rather less blushed than those around him. His eyes were grey and alert, glancing nervously at the doorway from time to time, and if anyone had been so inclined to yell out his name ? George ? he might've fallen from his chair with anxiety. He seemed lost in contemplation; scratching his un-gloved hands, peering down gloomily at the steel breastplate of his armour, and absent-mindedly twirling his sword on the marble floor.
The Princess sat opposite him, in a beautiful black dress that contrasted startlingly with her pale complexion. Her auburn hair was twisted neatly around her slender shoulders, and her red lips were continuously smiling, pouting, and drinking. She politely focused her attention on those keen diners who sat immediately next to her, but she could not help glancing across the courtyard now and then, at the apprehensive figure of George, against whom even the candle-light seemed to flicker unhappily.
All of a sudden, the feverish chatter of the guests dimmed, and then extinguished completely. Each man, woman and creature turned their attention to the portly, bearded figure that had pushed his chair back. The commanding gentleman stood up uncertainly, with a mug in his hand that sloshed over as he gesticulated.
"My good people," said the King, loudly. "How can I ever thank you enough for being here this evening, to celebrate, once again, the engagement of my daughter?" A rhythmic stamping of feet sounded from around the table, and the Princess smiled radiantly at the attention. "Do not let her mourning dress deceive you ? my darling child is, of course, still grieving over the loss of her most recent fiancé, the brave Earl of Thurmington," at the mention of the late Earl's name, a sympathetic murmur of condolence buzzed from the attentive diners. "But she, and I, could not be more thrilled to welcome young George into the family. I have the great privilege of announcing the happy couple officially affianced ? subject to the completion of certain, ah, formalities of course ? and I am sure that sweet, courageous George will make a fine Prince. And indeed, one day, King."
"Hear him! Hear him!" roared the dinner-guests, their approval cemented with hearty swigs of the excellent turnip wine.
"And let me finish by saying," the King bellowed, "that I wouldn't want to be in that bloody Dragon's shoes tomorrow, when ferocious George rides out to meet him! Show no mercy towards the beast, my boy, and when he is dead, with his vile head hanging from the gates of this Castle, you shall have my sweet daughter's hand in marriage! And all of England shall praise your name!"
George found the entire party's attention on him, and he thought it appropriate to raise a defiant, clenched fist, an act which received thunderous applause. Dozens of glassy, bleary eyes were on him, and countless hands were slapping the table in giddy anticipation of his victory. The diners' wet lips mouthed strong words of encouragement, entreaties, empty promises and all other sorts of nonsense. He couldn't quite believe that this was actually happening, that this was, in essence, his farewell feast. Despite their utterances to the contrary, nobody at the table really expected him to return in one piece, to claim his prize. What was his prize again? What was the point in this whole thing? Ah, yes, the Princess. Royal favour, fame, fortune, the crown, even, one day. Was it worth it? Was it worth his very life?
George couldn't help but feel slightly conned. One minute he'd been asked, discreetly, how he might feel about marrying the Princess, and the next he was being shown around the Palace, introduced to the staff and told of the plans that they had for the extension at the rear. There followed a joyous night in his intended bride's company, during which he had fallen completely smitten with her; for what was there not to like? She was painfully handsome, with long, wavy hair, a dazzling smile and white, velvet skin. She was full of laughter and teasing, and when she touched his hand with her own, George had felt an electric surge of romantic chivalry. And then, just as he thought he might burst with happiness, the King dropped shattered his dreams, casually enough.
"You do realise, dear George," and this as they were bidding one another goodnight, the Princess having already taken her leave, "that you will have to kill the Dragon before you can marry her?" And the King had retired swiftly to his bedchamber, leaving George to open and close his mouth in silent futility, like a landed trout.
Those at the dinner table, however, were full of praiseworthy awe and humble worship for the Dragon's latest nemesis. The Satyr stood up, knocking over two mugs that were in front of him on the table, stroked his great beard and fairly gushed over the valiant young hero. He declared, with a great thrashing of hoof, that he would re-name his first-born son after the gallant George ? should he succeed, of course, in slaying the Dragon (and indeed only if he succeeded). The Monocerus clambered onto its hind legs, then, to say a few words, its black horn gleaming proudly, but he was shoved to the side and eclipsed masterfully by the Unicorn, who was so full of heartwarming sentiment and soaring, subtle rhetoric that the men clapped and nodded solemnly, while the women sighed and stared with dreamy affection. Even the Centaur, not known for his sensitivity, was heard to mumble in profound agreement.
George excused himself from the feast some time after midnight, as the guests lashed out an impromptu rendition of a favourite song, The Dragon's Supper:
Men of honour, men of daring,
Without weakness or flaw!
If it's not steel that you're wearing
The beast will eat you raw!
Be ye fearsome or courageous,
Be it sunshine or storm!
The dragon is never gracious,
He'll crush you like a worm!
Even the Princess was joining in, thumping the table-top with her small fists and singing out in a high, happy voice. George wondered gloomily how many fiancés she had waved goodbye to, as they rode away across the moat, blinking salty tears from her dark eyes and nervously chewing that perfect bottom lip. The would-be Heir to the Throne quietly took his leave and slipped out from the great dining hall, informing one of the Ogres who guarded the door to insist that nobody disturb him during the night. After all, he rode out in the morning, to face the Dragon, and a good, refreshing sleep would be the very least that he would need.
The walls of the Palace were thick, and the blare of the revelry was thankfully all but drowned out by the time George reached his bedchamber. He wearily threw his armour across the back of a stiff wooden chair, kicked off his boots and collapsed onto the soft duck-feather quilt, overcome immediately with nervous exhaustion.
It might have been two minutes or two hours, but George was suddenly awoken. His eyes bore into the darkness and his brow trembled in a cold sweat. What had woken him? The room was black as coal, since the window faced away from the glimmering moonlight, and he strained his ears but could hear nothing but silence. Relaxing, he took a long, deep breath, savouring the sweet aroma of vanilla and cinnamon in his nostrils?the smell must have roused him?and then soft skin was in his hands, and the Princess was kissing him gently on the cheek, with a reassuring sigh.
"You don't have to do it," she whispered, sitting up straight and batting away his groping hands. "I could never ask someone to risk their life for me."
George sat up, stunned. "But the King ? "
"Don't worry about Daddy. I'll tell you the same thing I told Trevor ? "
"Trevor?"
"The Earl of Thurmington, my ?most recent' fiancé. I told him that I didn't want him to fight the Dragon if he didn't want to, not for me. When you leave the Palace in the morning," she placed a fragrant finger against George's lips to stop him from protesting, "ride out to the Forest, as though you were intent on meeting the Dragon. Before you get to the trees there is a dip in the grass, from where you will be hidden from view from even the tallest tower of the Palace. Ride around to the West, keeping close to the Forest, until you get to the River. Then you can follow the water North, safely, and go home. After a few days, when you haven't returned, the King will announce that you must inevitably have suffered a noble death at the hands of the Dragon, award you a posthumous Knighthood, and find another suitor for his baby daughter. And I," she sighed sadly, "will enter yet another period of fake mourning, for a fake fiancé."
George was stunned. He sat up and held the Princess around her supple waist, marvelling at her profile, flawless even in the dark. "How long has this been going on for?" he asked, worried.
"Long enough," she replied. "I suppose the first few might have gone to face the Dragon, but when they didn't return I couldn't bare the thought that these brave, good men were dying in my name. The guilt hung too heavily around my shoulders. I would much rather you go home, back to your family, and meet a lovely local girl whose hand in marriage is not subject to a Dragon's carcase. This is what I wish for you, dear George."
He shook his head sadly. This poor girl's entire life was a charade. "Can't be much fun for you," he observed. "This never-ending line of temporary relationships?but tell me, your Majesty, what you would do if ever a man did return, having slain the Dragon?"
"When ? if ? a man comes back, triumphant, I'll think him the most foolish, stubborn, meat-headed person I've ever met. And I'll marry him in an instant. But until then?" George's hand fell on hers, with a reassuring tightness. "Don't worry about me, silly. I'm a Princess. My life isn't supposed to be fun." He could tell, even in the dark, that she was pouting unhappily. He could hear it in her voice. "I must go now, George, for daddy will grow suspicious if I am away for too long. Remember, my dear, when you reach the edge of the trees, ride West until you reach the River. I don't think I shall be seeing you again, brave Knight."
With another intoxicating kiss she was gone, leaving behind her a sweet scent and a thoroughly smitten, speechless George.
The morning sunlight glittered handsomely on his armour as he sat straight-backed on his horse, a monstrous Gallic stallion called La Vache. All the townsfolk had come to the see the drawbridge wound down, and the brave Princess' fiancé ride out across the moat to face the perilous Dragon. George lifted his right hand, clad in thick chainmail, to the gathering crowds, and slashed his sword from side to side in the air, to much gasping and admiring catcalls. A handmaiden came scuttling through across the courtyard, yelling out to George and waving in front of her a cloth of soft, delicate material. It was a favour from her Lady, and he stooped down to retrieve it. It smelled of her, sweet vanilla pods and spicy cinnamon. George's mind glanced back to those stolen moments in his bedchamber, the soft, tantalising waist, the plump lips and the warm breath on his neck. He looked up and sought out the Princess, standing regally in a figure-hugging gown of dark crushed velvet. She lifted only briefly the laced veil which covered most of her face and fixed her departing hero with a long, sympathetic stare. Anyone who noticed would have mistaken it for a look that was pleading with her fiancé to return, the Dragon slaughtered?but George knew better. He knew that she was telling him, with those sparkling globes, to go home.
rating: 8
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