GALLOWAY IV, KING OF MEDULLA, STOMPED DOWN the second-floor hallway of the east wing of Medulla Palace, a dirty scrap of foolscap scrunched in one hand, the other hand clenched into a fist. The second floor of the east wing was where the royal family had their suites. The floor was carpeted, so stomping didn’t have quite the same effect as it did downstairs, but it was still enough to shake the paintings on the walls. The King was a big man. His purple robe, a color reserved for royalty in Medulla, swirled around him as he turned a corner. Underneath his official robes of office he wore flannel pajamas. He had been taking a nap when the news arrived.
Hard on his heels were two of the palace guard—Terry was one of the pair—in thick wool uniforms, with breastplates and cut-and-thrust military swords. For safety’s sake they were supposed to precede the king and shelter him from danger, but that was difficult with Galloway, who had a tendency to change directions suddenly and without warning. Terry and the other guards usually found themselves scurrying after the king. Today was no exception.
The guards were followed by a long, strung-out line of worried ministers, courtiers, aides, officers, and assistants. Periodically Galloway turned to them and yelled out things like, “What sort of hoax is this?” and “Bunch of damn nonsense,” while waving the paper for emphasis. His sycophants did not comment, and once he turned away, exchanged concerned looks. Terry, who was just as worried as any of the others, tried to conceal his feelings. He had his own note, tightly folded and tucked away in an inner pocket. It did not reassure him.
The King reached a suite of rooms, gave the door three brisk knocks, and entered his daughter’s sitting room without listening for a reply. The room was filled with morning sun. An attractive girl was leaning back in the window seat, working on a very difficult cross-stitch. At Galloway’s entrance she came to her feet. She was tall, slim, had long blond hair, was primly clothed in a high-necked dress, and she listened respectfully when the King spoke.
He waved the paper under her nose and shouted, “Now see here, Gloria.” Upon saying this, he decided that there was no need to shout at the girl, and modulated his voice. “Now see here, Gloria,” he repeated in a softer tone. “What’s all this folderol about being kidnapped? You’ve got your mother all upset, and the whole palace is in a tizzy. You know I take a very dim view of these kinds of pranks. Look at you. You’re almost a grown woman now. This sort of thing is beneath your dignity.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the girl said politely. “I’m sure you are quite correct. But I regret that I must tell you I’m not your daughter Gloria. I’m Jean, one of her ladies-in-waiting.”
“You’re not Gloria?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Well, damn it, where is Gloria?”
The rest of the King’s entourage was piling up at the door. A small girl in a blue pinafore wiggled her way through the crowd of legs. She ran up to the king and hugged one of his legs. “Hi, Father!”
“You!” The King pointed a finger at her. “Are you Gloria?”
“I’m Melody, Father!”
“All right, then!” The King disentangled himself from the child, pushed forward into the dressing room, and from there into Gloria’s bedroom. After a cursory check he returned to the sitting room, which had filled with government officials. More were still outside. “Which one is Gloria, anyway?”
“Gloria is your oldest daughter, Your Majesty,” said Jean.
“That’s correct, Your Majesty,” said Terry.
There were murmurs of assent from both inside the room and those still outside the doorway. A tear welled up in the little girl’s eye. “You don’t remember me, Father?”
Instantly contrite, the King dropped to his knees and threw an arm around the child. “Of course I remember your name, Melody. I was just checking to see if you remembered.” He felt in his pocket with his other hand and was gratified to come up with a handful of wrapped peppermints. “Here, have a sweetmeat, Melody. Now go and play with your friends, Melody.” Placated, the girl crunched the candy and ran through the door, the various ministers parting to let her through. “Melody, Melody,” the King muttered. He closed his eyes and paced back and forth a bit. “Got to remember…” He opened his eyes and saw the courtiers watching him. “What?” he demanded. “You think I don’t know my own children? Of course I do…you!”
He pointed a finger at another young woman who was poking her head up from behind the crowd in the hall, trying to see what was going on. “You’re Gloria! I remember that dress! You posed for a portrait in it. It’s hanging in the library. Get in here!”
Once again his entourage separated themselves to form a path for the girl. She slid through them and curtseyed to the King. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m Alice. I’m Princess Gloria’s personal maid.”
“It’s common for a gentlewoman to make gifts of clothing to her personal maid, Your Majesty,” said Jean. “Gloria also makes gifts to her friends.”
King Galloway lost his temper. “That’s it,” he roared. “I’ve had enough. I want every woman in the castle assembled in the ballroom in one hour! Do you hear me? One hour. In the ballroom.” He glared at his assembled ministers. “See to it!”
Precisely one hour later he entered the ballroom, flanked by his guards. He had changed out of his pajamas and combed his hair and beard. His ministers flocked around like nervous birds, crowding up behind him. Queen Matilda was seated in the center front, openly weeping. The footman had just finished bringing in extra chairs, for the Queen had her own entourage, and it was larger than the King’s. She was surrounded by children, courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, maids, governesses, cooks, laundresses, dressmakers, tradeswomen, waitresses, teachers, musicians, actresses, artists, friends, and visiting nobility. All looked grave. All stood when the King entered. Terry, still on duty, was at the king’s side. Galloway strode briskly to the front of the room, held up a hand for silence, and said authoritatively, “Thank you for coming. I know that you are all very busy, but this will take only a moment.” He waited for the room to become silent. “I want everyone who is not one of my daughters to sit down. Understood? Everyone who is not one of my daughters, please sit down.”
There was a rustling of skirts and a sliding of chairs. A hundred feminine eyes watched as the King did a quick head count, then double-checked, his lips moving. He motioned for his Chargé d’Affaires to come to his side. “I make it out to be nine.”
“I get the same total, Your Majesty.”
“There should be ten, right?”
“That is correct, Your Majesty.”
“Do a roll call. Find out who is…”
“It’s Princess Gloria, Your Majesty,” said Terry quietly.
The King looked at the knight. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“He is correct, Your Majesty.”
“Well, that jibes with this note, then.” He turned to the watching throng. “All right, then. Dismissed. Thank you for your cooperation.” All the women rose, but none left. They were all watching the queen, who remained seated. Galloway cleared his throat nervously, then turned his back on them. He gestured for some of his key ministers to come over. “How could this happen?” he asked in a low voice. He pointed to the note.
“She was riding in the royal park,” someone said. “It’s always been considered a secure area. She rides there all the time. All your girls do. And since she turned eighteen, Princess Gloria often sends her bodyguards away. She says she needs her privacy. Anyway, the horse came back to the stable without her. The note was pinned to the saddle blanket. It said to wait for instructions.”
“I know what it says.”
“We combed the park, of course, but we didn’t find anything else. There’s no reason to think she has been injured. A few witnesses have come forward already. They say a band of brigands rode off to the west. A young blond woman was with them. They said she seemed to be struggling.”
“All right then,” said the King. “Mobilize the Royal Guard. Start tracking the brigands. Cover all the routes out of the city. Put every available man on it. Round up the usual suspects, offer the usual rewards, you know how it works.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Contact me as soon as you learn anything. Wait a minute.” King Galloway snapped his fingers. “Gloria. Didn’t we finally get her betrothed to that poofy-looking kid?”
“The wealthy young gentleman? Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Well, he has a problem, doesn’t he?” The King looked over his shoulder, to where the Queen was still sitting. She had stopped crying and was now glaring at him. Galloway turned back to his ministers. “Gloria’s mother is going to be so mad.”