Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  It spots us and roars with fury, spittle spraying into the air. Then it lowers itself onto all fours and races forward.

  There’s no time to flee. It’s too close.

  Instead, I roughly shove the small child behind me and scream at her to run.

  Then it’s on me, its weight pinning me down, its horrific stink filling my nostrils. I freeze, fear finally paralyzing me.

  And then the beast is rolled away. It lies next to me, unmoving, its glassy eyes staring at the ground, unseeing. Blood pools around it, but I barely notice because I’m being jerked up, pulled against a hard chest.

  Conrad’s reprimanding me, holding me so tight it hurts. He then runs his hands over me, murmuring over and over again how insanely foolish I was. He might say something about brave too, and my mind latches onto that, holds it close.

  Conrad thinks I’m brave.

  I meet his dark brown eyes, my world swirling. “You saved me,” I manage. “Again.”

  “Just barely.”

  I glance at the dead troll—the one who was a heartbeat from slaughtering me. After a hazy moment, I look back at Conrad. “Thank you.”

  And then I pass out.

  Chapter 27

  I wake to the sound of a horse’s whinny and hoofbeats on soft ground. I blink several times, disoriented. My cheek is pressed against fabric covering a muscular chest, and my mouth is far too dry. I run my tongue along the roof of my mouth and slowly sit up.

  “You’re awake,” Conrad says, his words entirely too close to my ear for comfort.

  I straighten, startled, and then I glance at the space between us.

  Or lack of space.

  His arm is around my back, holding me securely against him, and I’m draped over him like a doll. We’re atop Frank, and Conrad holds the reins in one hand as though it’s the most natural thing to ride with a grown woman in his lap.

  Slowly, it all comes back. I shudder, wanting nothing more than to block the entire ordeal out of my head forever. Conrad’s grip softens ever so slightly, and he presses his flat palm against my back, rubbing gentle circles over my cloak.

  “They would have died,” he says, keeping his voice low, making me realize we’re not alone.

  And of course we’re not, but I’d blocked the rest of our group out—though there are more of us now. Phillip carries the young girl on his horse. She stares at the forest, her huge gray eyes overwhelmed. She’s two, maybe three years old, and far too silent for one her age.

  I turn back to Conrad. I should probably ask him to let me down, but I don’t want to. I want to stay right here, in the king’s arms, with his hand on my back as though I’m his to hold and protect.

  “Who would have died?” I ask.

  “The girls and their mother,” he says, his tone still hushed. “They went in the cellar, were going to flee through the back. They didn’t realize the woodpile had fallen over the doors.” He meets my eyes. “If you hadn’t dug them out, the troll would have gotten to them before I could kill it. You saved them.”

  His words bring back memories, and I begin to tremble. Tears prick my eyes, a belated reaction to the terror. I’m helpless to stop them as they roll down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my head, hating myself for crying.

  “It’s normal after a trauma.” His voice is rich and dark and reassuring.

  I dab at my eyes, staunching the flow. “What about the man?”

  “He’s alive, though I’m not sure we should have moved him. But what choice did we have?” Conrad frowns. “I put him, his wife, and the baby in the carriage with Emma and sent Clive back to the castle to fetch a physician. We didn’t dare turn back. We’re far closer to the lodge.”

  The man is alive, and the girls and their mother are safe. I relax against Conrad, so very tired.

  “We’ll arrive soon,” Conrad promises.

  I nod and then give in to the temptation of resting my head against him. He feels safe, and it’s warm in his arms. Unable to help myself, I doze on and off the rest of the way.

  Because of our unexpected detour, it’s late by the time we arrive at the lodge. The building is smaller than I imagined, only three stories, but still a good-sized estate.

  The exterior wood is dark, the design masculine and rustic. It’s nestled amongst the trees, but it looks out over a lake.

  Conrad helps me from the horse, holding me steady for several moments to make sure I have my balance.

  I take a few steps toward the lake, marveling at the expanse of blue water, watching the way it laps against the shore. The setting sun glistens off the surface, sparkling like a thousand jewels.

  “You look bemused,” Conrad says, stepping next to me.

  “I’ve never seen a lake.” A fish jumps, creating circular ripples in the water.

  The king’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise lighting his face. “Never?”

  “There are ponds near the village—you know that, of course. And there’s the creek.”

  The creek—even thinking of it brings back painful memories.

  “But no lakes,” I continue, pushing the thought aside. “Not like this.”

  He chuckles, still sounding a bit baffled. “This is rather small compared to many.”

  “I don’t care. It’s beautiful.”

  Massive gray granite boulders line much of the edge, and moss grows on their craggy surfaces. There are a few spots where the forest floor meets the water. The loamy soil looks spongy and damp, and I wonder if I’d sink if I walked over it. The entire area is surrounded by evergreens: majestic firs, plump spruces, and tall, long-needled pines.

  I want to live here, forever and ever. Every morning, I want to step out those doors and gaze at this lake.

  And in the picture I’ve painted in my mind, the man I see standing by my side is Conrad. Not Rune.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as he gives me a half smile.

  “Like what?”

  “Rather seasick.” His smile grows.

  It’s the guilt. The ravaging guilt.

  It should be gone by now, but it still plagues me occasionally, and always when I least expect it…especially when I think things like that.

  “The breeze is growing cool,” I say instead of answering. “We should go inside.”

  Conrad stands there, looking at me, reading more than he should—certainly more than I want. After a moment, he nods and escorts me into the lodge.

  Just his casual touch sends butterflies winging in my stomach. When did this happen? When did I become besotted with my own husband?

  And is it wrong? Does it make me cruel or fickle? Heartless even?

  The only thing I know for certain is I can’t tell him. In all this time, he’s kept his distance, never so much as kissed me. I’m just the girl he saved, the one he didn’t have the heart to watch walk to the slaughter. Maybe I reminded him of his true love; I was poor enough.

  Perhaps he feels that marrying me—the nothing daughter of a peddler—and lavishing me with gifts and beautiful things, makes up for Louisa’s sad end in some way.

  “Are you feeling all right?” He takes my cloak. “Were you hurt at all?”

  “No.” But my heart is weary. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll retire for the evening. Where is my room?”

  He watches me, frowning slightly.

  “Conrad?”

  “There are more of us than originally planned.”

  I cross my arms, waiting.

  “Your bedchamber has an adjoining sitting room. Forgive me, but I thought it best to put Arvid and his family in them, since there are more of them than there is of you.”

  I think about his words, processing them. “You’ve booted the queen of Morgenbruch out of her chambers to make room for a wounded woodcutter and his family?”

  He will never know how much that pleases me.

  Conrad crosses his arms, mimicking my stance. “You will sleep in my chambers. Benjamin and
Edmund can share for the night, and I’ll take one of their rooms.”

  My chest tightens, and my heart flutters. “No, it’s no use. The brothers are noble, spoiled creatures.”

  He watches me, his expression carefully blank.

  “I can room with Emma,” I suggest.

  “For the time being, since your rooms are full, she’s in the servant quarters.”

  “Oh.” I look past him, just over his shoulder. “I suppose we can share your chambers for the night.” Then I hastily add, “I’ll sleep on a settee, of course.”

  My husband is quiet, too quiet—and for far too long. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “That’s not fitting, now is it?”

  My eyes fly to his, and I grow flushed and embarrassed. “I don’t see how it’s unfitting, considering—”

  “I’ll sleep on the settee.”

  Several moments pass. Flushed, confusing moments.

  Why is he so handsome? Why must he stand there, tempting me without even meaning to?

  And why am I just realizing it now that he’s grown bored of my cool temperament and listless behavior and is determined to find the stag and give me back to Rune? It was inevitable, I suppose. At least Conrad’s willing to release me instead of cutting off my head. It’s a compliment, really, a sign of mild affection.

  And here I am, demanding to share his room.

  Foolish, silly, contrary girl.

  I wave my hand, playing nonchalant. “I’ve changed my mind. Give me one of the brothers’ rooms.”

  Then I turn on my heel, not waiting for him to answer.

  “Greta,” Conrad calls instead of letting me exit gracefully.

  When I glance back, I find him eying me, his gaze intent. I realize for the first time that he looks like he battled several trolls today. His shirt is torn in several places. He’s dusty, and the right side of his jaw is just showing the makings of a bruise.

  There’s something about it that makes him appear all the more masculine, more capable. More striking. I swallow, trapped in his dark, dark stare—just like the day in the village.

  “You have always been, and will be for as long as you desire it, welcome in my chambers,” he says, his gaze unwavering.

  I stand here, rooted to the spot, forgetting how to breathe. My mouth is dry; my heart hammers in my chest. Because I don’t trust myself to speak, I merely nod.

  Chapter 28

  Greta stares at me, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted. She’s a mess, with her hair falling from its braids, her jaw smudged with dirt, and her cloak and gown filthy from digging through the split logs, unearthing the cellar doors. There’s a rip in the delicate fabric, a split in the overskirt. She wears the gown often; I believe it’s a favorite.

  I’ll order her another and a dozen more if that will bring her joy.

  The longer I stare at her, the more flustered she becomes. A flush tints her neck and cheeks, and her shoulders rise and fall just a little faster than before.

  My blood warms in reaction to her reaction. Unbidden, I remember the terror that latched to my lungs when the troll lunged for her, those few bare seconds before I was sure I killed him before he could kill her.

  The memory makes me desperate to close the distance between us, take her in my arms, kiss her thoroughly. I long to press my lips to her neck, feel the thrum of her pulse, reassure myself she is whole and alive.

  After a long moment—a lifetime, maybe more—she drops her gaze, composes herself as only my Greta can do, and walks past me, as queenly as any woman born for the title.

  I watch her go, unable to pull my eyes away, feeling like a nervous young man instead of a king. I’ve waited for this day for months, and yet I dread it. There are more than a thousand ways I could send her back into the depressed, wounded girl I married. A touch, a glance, a mannerism—who knows what I might do that could remind her of him.

  Instead of dwelling on everything that might go wrong, I find the nearest man—a cook, judging from the flour smudged on his plain brown tunic—and instruct him to move the queen’s things to my rooms. He frowns, glancing down at his garb, perhaps wondering if the mad king is too addled to tell he’s not the man for the job.

  I’m not; I simply don’t care.

  He nods and leaves me, likely off to find the right man for the job.

  I’ll give her space, I think as I walk up a flight of stairs, past shining suits of armor from my grandfather’s time. She said she’d share my room, not my bed.

  She’s your wife.

  But she hasn’t accepted that, not yet.

  When we are to be together—if we are together, Greta must come to me freely. No matter how I would like to, I cannot force her to love me.

  To be honest though, it would be far more convenient. Again, I entertain the idea of asking the stag to change her heart. But it would never work. Not only do I know it’s wrong; I find the idea repulsive. Perhaps it’s my pride, but I refuse to use magic to make a woman care for me. Even entertaining these thoughts is a blow to my ego.

  After all, am I a deformed monster, cursed to spend my time alone? I am certainly not. I’ve had more than my share of women throw themselves my way. Even after I married Greta, I received offers—ones I turned down.

  There has been no one since I first laid eyes on Greta in the village. She’s transformed me into a romantic fool, one who pines over a woman who does not want him.

  In some ways, I resent her for it—loathe that she has this power over me but doesn’t want to be the one to wield it.

  But something is changing. Greta’s not as aloof; she smiles occasionally. And why would she request a new companion? I can see no reason other than…she wants to stay. With me.

  Earlier, too, she invited me by her side, requested my presence instead of shrinking away from it. I relive the moment, remembering the feel of her next to me. I wanted to kiss her, run my hands through her hair—

  “Your Majesty,” my huntsman says, startling me from my thoughts. I look over, feeling like a fool.

  At my request, the man came early, preparing for my arrival. “I’ve seen signs of the stag,” he continues. “Golden hair, caught on a branch not an hour’s ride from here.”

  Shaking my head to rid myself of the distracting thoughts, I turn to him. “Show me.”

  The man glances out the windows, toward the darkening sky. “Tonight, Sire? It’s growing dark, and it will be hard to spot signs at night.”

  That might be. But would I avoid the torture that will be sharing a room with Greta? Absolutely.

  “After dinner.”

  He bows his head. “Of course.”

  Greta turns to me, listening as I speak, giving me her undivided attention. There’s a scratch on her neck from our earlier encounter with the trolls, a small one that will heal in only a few days. She rubs it idly. Is it foolish hope, or do I detect disappointment?

  “You’re going…tonight?” she finally asks.

  What I would give to know her thoughts.

  “That’s right.”

  Ask me to stay, I think. I don’t care about the stag. All I can think of is the woman at my side with the sad eyes.

  But no—not sad. Not right now.

  They’re frustrated. Irritated even.

  I cock my head to the side, studying her, growing increasingly amused.

  She cuts through the tiny game hen on her not-gold plate with slightly too much gusto, not even bothering to answer me.

  “Is that…a problem?” I ask, more than willing to poke a bear, especially when that bear’s eyes have been devoid of emotion for far too long. Yes, I play to her irritation. Let her get angry.

  Greta huffs out a soft breath, one I know she doesn’t want me to see. Then she places her knife aside, so carefully—too carefully, and dabs her mouth with the corner of her napkin.

  The move brings my eyes to her lips, a place they travel too often on their own. She clamps her mouth shut, locking in words and emotions and all manner of things
that intrigue me.

  “I’m exhausted.” She snaps the napkin over her nearly full plate and rises from her chair. Every eye in the room turns on her, but she looks at a maid standing in the corner. “Show me to my room, please.”

  With a hasty curtsy, the girl ushers Greta away.

  Emma turns to me, finally pulling her eyes from Phillip. “What did you do?” she asks, forgetting her place.

  A slow grin builds on my face, and I turn back to my own dinner, not even bothering to hide it. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s working.”

  Chapter 29

  I close the door and press my back against the wood, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. He’s the most asinine man. All those months he swears he wants me, and then I practically throw myself at him, and what does he do?

  He goes off into the night, looking for a stag that half the people in the kingdom would swear is nothing more than a tale.

  Honestly.

  But that’s not why he’s leaving—no. He doesn’t want me.

  I want to scream. Actually, I want to slap him. How dare he worm his way into my defenses and then leave me alone and waiting?

  Fickle man.

  Another thought plagues me, one I don’t want to give words to. But it’s there, begging to be released.

  “Maybe there is another woman,” I whisper to myself, hating the thought.

  What man goes off for a joy-hunt in the night, when it’s cold and the air promises a spring snowstorm?

  And I ignored him for so many months.

  I rip the crown from my head, sending pins flying. The childish movement pulls dozens of tiny hairs, and my scalp protests—doing nothing to ease my horrid mood. I toss the crown on a nearby table, knowing I’m not treating it with the care it deserves. Something about that soothes the anger, if only a little.

  Finally, I look about the room, taking stock. Dark, heavy wood. Burgundy linens, teak-colored drapes. A painting hangs over a desk, a woodland oil of the Golden Stag. How ironic.