Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  Brushing my braids out with my fingers, I walk across the room, my eyes on the painting. The stag stands in the forest, his coat glistening in the early spring light. The grass is green; the trees are just beginning to bud.

  Is spring the season of his arrival? Is that when he shows himself?

  No, I’ve seen just as many likenesses of him standing in autumn leaves, or amongst winter white, with snow falling on his golden coat.

  Is he real? Can he truly give me what my heart most desires?

  Rune.

  No.

  I drop my face in my hands, hating myself because the voice in my ear is right. I miss Rune—I do. But he left me for reasons I’ll never understand.

  So what is it I want?

  Truly?

  In the deepest, darkest recesses of my battered heart?

  “Conrad,” I murmur to the artist’s rendering of the stag.

  I want the stag to mend my heart, take away the pain, make me whole again. And all so I can give myself to Conrad fully, completely, and without hesitation. I want to belong to him. I want him to belong to me. I want him to want me.

  And is that wrong?

  Probably. Possibly. I have no idea.

  I just know that the infuriating, difficult man is my husband. We said the vows. Promised forever. I’m not leaving, even if he’s tired of me. Let him try to cast me away.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  The door opens quietly, stirring me from a fitful slumber. I expect to find a maid tiptoeing into the room to light the fire, but instead, a shadowed man strides toward the bed.

  I blink away the remnants of my dreams and roll toward him. “You’re back?”

  “And you’re in my bed.” His voice is as dark as the hour, a bit rough, quiet. It makes delightful chills run down my spine. Or maybe it’s not the tone but the words themselves.

  I sit, drawing the blankets up with me, covering myself even though my night shift is as modest as can be. “Where did you expect to find me?”

  He makes a low noise, something that only fans the flames growing in my chest. And then I remember his errand.

  “Did you find the stag?” I ask, my voice instantly icy.

  In the shadows, he cocks his head to the side. “What was that?”

  “A question.” Then, very slowly, pronouncing each word with care, I repeat, “Did…you…find…the…stag?”

  “I heard the question the first time. I was inquiring about the tone.”

  I snort—not my most dignified moment—and lie back, pulling the blankets nearly over my head.

  Muffled steps fill the room as he walks over the plush rug that surrounds the bed. He stops in front of me, too close, and pulls back the corner of the blanket, revealing my face.

  I resist the urge to rip the blanket from his fingers.

  “No,” he says. I can feel him staring down at me.

  “You don’t say.”

  He chuckles darkly. “Tell me, Greta. Where do you think I was?”

  My anger gets the best of me, and I sit up abruptly, pushing the blankets aside, tossing my legs from the side of the bed, pressing my bare feet onto the floor, and rising. Conrad’s taller than I am…broader, stronger…

  No—do not let yourself become distracted.

  “If you were going to go gallivanting at night, why bring me? Did you want to throw it in my face that you’re desirable? That women want you? You’re not free of me yet—remember that. And do not tell me you’re tracking when you are certainly not.”

  His breath moves my hair, tickling my forehead with warm heat. It seems we stand here for forever. I refuse to break the silence.

  “But I was tracking,” he finally says, amusement thick in his voice.

  “You do not expect me to—”

  He presses two fingers to my lips, shushing me.

  My knees almost buckle. The feel of him, the closeness… I grow lightheaded, but I keep my ground, refusing to melt in front of him like a simpering maid.

  “One moment.” He shifts back, his fingers slowly sliding from my lips. It’s a caress, a promise.

  Moments later, he lights a candle. The light is meager, but it illuminates the space between us.

  My eyes rove over him. His jacket is dusty, and a stray pine needle clings to his cloak.

  Conrad sets the candle aside and steps close to me, so close we almost touch. Then he holds out his hand, offering me a tiny tuft of golden hair.

  It catches the light, shimmering much like Rune’s golden threads.

  “Why would I seek out another woman’s attention when the queen of Morgenbruch sleeps in my bed?” His words are molasses, dark and sweet. And like a fool fly, I’m drawn to them.

  “There is no other, has been no other, and will be no other.” He pauses. “Do you understand? When I said my vows, I meant them.”

  One heartbeat. Four. Six.

  I gulp, nodding. I don’t know what’s more terrifying—that I believe him or that there’s nothing standing between us. No reason to claim he’s a villain, no shield to hide behind.

  “Good,” he says, and then he steps back, giving me air.

  “What time is it?” I murmur, wondering how long we have of darkness, just the two of us, alone, away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

  Conrad nods toward the drape-covered window. “The moon is just now finding its rest.”

  I follow his gaze, both irritated and relieved to find the slightest hint of early dawn light seeping in through the edges of the curtains.

  “Get dressed,” he says, looking back. “Wear something warm—it snowed. Come find me in the stable when you’re ready.”

  “Where are we going?” If I step forward and stand on my toes, I could claim his mouth.

  “To find the stag,” he answers, oblivious to my wayward thoughts. “I know where he is.”

  I laugh, dreading the moment he’ll step away. “You’re quite the mighty hunter.”

  He shifts closer once more, bringing us together, and then he leans down, his lips so very near my ear. “No, I’m a patient hunter. I study my prey, watch patterns, habits, weaknesses. Then I advance.”

  Just when my muscles turn molten, the king turns on his heel and walks away, leaving the room cold. He’s almost to the door when I call him back. “You say you’re patient, Conrad. But perhaps you’re afraid to make your move?”

  His eyes darken with an emotion that mirrors my own. “Bold words, my queen. Why don’t you come over here and see?”

  Our gazes hold, the intensity growing, but I lose my nerve. Looking away first, I wave him off with my hand. “Go away so I can change.”

  Chapter 30

  Fourteen days, we look for the Golden Stag. An entire fortnight. And what do we find? Troll sign.

  “I teased you,” I say to Conrad from atop my horse. In no particular hurry, we ride side-by-side down a meandering forest trail. “But you truly are a mighty hunter. Some would even say awe-inspiring.”

  I peek a glance at him, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The king shakes his head, grinning but trying not to, looking as though he would like nothing more than to playfully shove me right off my horse.

  Or kiss me.

  Or shove me off my horse, press me into the blanket of spring flowers, and then kiss me.

  Since the early morning when he woke me with his return, he’s left me alone in his grand chamber. From the way the brothers muttered the next morning at breakfast, I think it’s safe to assume he stole one of their rooms.

  We’re alone today, as has been our habit for the last several days. I like this time and this version of Conrad. Out here, he’s the man I met in the woods. And that makes me wonder. Maybe things can be like this between us…all the time.

  “Perhaps my lack of hunting prowess is due to my less-than-quiet companion,” he says.

  I laugh, the sound ringing through the trees. “Are you saying it’s my fault we haven’t found the stag?”

  Con
rad’s smile grows as he turns my way, catching me in his gaze. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Butterflies fluttering like mad in my belly, I look ahead. “You know…I wonder…”

  “What?”

  The evergreens have shaken off their winter cloaks, and new growth—bright green—forms in tiny needles at the ends of the boughs. Buds swell on the limbs of the deciduous trees, still bare for the season. But soon they’ll leaf, and the world will be bright and warm.

  I play with my reins, turning my attention to my chestnut mare’s smooth, auburn mane. “Perhaps we haven’t found the stag because he knows we have no purpose for his presence.”

  Abruptly, Conrad pulls Frank to a stop. My horse follows his lead without any prompting. I look up, braving his expression.

  It’s enigmatic, entirely captivating.

  “Speak plainly,” he demands, the playful tone gone. “Tell me what you’re hinting at.”

  A gust of wind blows through the trees, picking up last year’s fallen leaves and dust, making them dance. Our horses shift below us, spooked by the sudden noise and sensation. My cloak whips around me, taking me by surprise as well.

  When the forest finally settles, I straighten myself and turn back to Conrad. I’m just digging up the courage to find the right words when there’s a crashing from the trees next to me, and I’m ripped from my mount by a gnarled black paw-hand tipped with wicked talons.

  I scream, kicking and twisting, as the troll wraps its hair-riddled arm around my waist and drags me into the brush. “CONRAD!”

  Where is it taking me?

  A branch slaps me across the face, and then another. The troll stink seeps into my nose, and I hold my breath, trying not to retch as I fight. Then the beast lets out a wounded roar and swirls around, heaving me to the ground. My shoulder collides with a boulder, and the ankle I sprained not so long ago twists at an odd angle, sending familiar pain racing through my leg, pulsing with heat and urgency.

  And then there’s Conrad, sword in hand, off his horse, charging the monster.

  He’s already wounded the troll. Blood flows from a gash in its side, but it still fights, mad with rage now that it’s been bitten by Conrad’s blade.

  When the fight comes a little too close, I roll away and attempt to stand. Horrified, I watch as the creature dodges an attack and plows headfirst into Conrad’s gut. The king’s sword falls to the earth as the two roll end over end, grappling with each other.

  But Conrad’s fists are no match for the troll’s teeth and talons.

  Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I crawl forward, desperate, braid swinging in my face as I reach for the hilt of the sword. Conrad yells, a muffled cry that alerts me our time is running out.

  There’s dirt in my mouth from the fall, and more of it on my face, but my mind is only on Conrad.

  My ankle protests as I move, but it’s not like before—the pain is dull instead of sharp. And I can stand.

  I stumble forward, toward the blur of scraggly black hair and kingly finery. My cloak and dress catch on the many claws of the still-bare shrubs, attempting to slow my progress. I rip past them, tripping only once.

  A raven cries from a nearby tree. It caws a warning, telling me I’m weak. Telling me to run. Telling me my king is lost to the beasts that have invaded the kingdom.

  My kingdom.

  Mine.

  I am its queen; Conrad is its king. We will not lose him today.

  With a scream for strength, I grasp the sword with both hands, raise it into the air, and plunge it into the troll’s unprotected back.

  It lets out an ear-piercing cry, raising its gaping maw into the air, and then rolls to the side. Dead.

  Blood on its teeth.

  Blood everywhere.

  Blood covering my king.

  “Conrad,” I breathe, growing ice-cold. “Conrad, no.”

  His shoulder is torn apart, ravaged by the troll’s wicked teeth. The beast’s talons ripped him to shreds. Wounds stretch across his arms and belly and legs. Even his face, his handsome, beautiful face, has been marred by the troll’s fury.

  He gasps for breath, his eyes closed, his face gray.

  I race for him, dropping to my knees at his side, my hands fluttering uselessly. Where do I start? What wound do I wrap first?

  “Greta.”

  “I have to stop the bleeding,” I tell him, my voice shaking but firm. I begin ripping at my filthy skirt.

  Stop the flow. Keep him alive.

  Keep him breathing.

  “Greta,” Conrad says again, this time barely a whisper.

  “Quiet, I’m saving you,” I say, choking back the tears that dance in my vision. Focus on the panic. It’s cold and clinical.

  Break later.

  Not now.

  Not now.

  And he laughs. It’s the sound of a dying man. He grasps for my hand, stilling my futile tugging at the wretched fabric that’s too thick to tear without the help of a knife.

  “Look at me,” he commands.

  I shake my head, trying to pull away from him. Why won’t this wretched cloth rip?

  To oblivion with it all. I press the gown itself to his wounds, covering as much as I can. I’ll lie on him, use every ounce of me for pressure if his blood will just stop spilling onto the ground.

  “I love you, Greta.”

  My eyes fly to his.

  “I’m sorry for trapping you; I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.” His pulse beats weakly at his throat, and his lips part with pain.

  “No.” I shake my head, needing to stand, to run, to release this nervous energy, but I refuse to leave his side. “Don’t say that, not now. Save it for later. When we’re back. When you’re well.”

  He jerks his head. “Wish these trolls out of my kingdom, Greta.”

  “What—”

  And that’s when I feel it, a gentle press on my shoulder. I whip around, terrified. What’s found us now? This forest, once a sanctuary, has become a lair of death.

  I go still the moment I lay eyes on the creature.

  The Golden Stag. Here, now. With us.

  “In moments, you’ll be free to marry your elf,” Conrad continues, laboring for breath. “Please, for me. Use your wish for my people. Send the trolls away, back to the mountains where they belong.”

  “Conrad,” I say, realizing what he’s saying. “You’re not dying.”

  “I am,” he assures me.

  But he’s not.

  I turn to the stag, coming to my feet. He stares back at me, all golden coat and wise, wise eyes. He’s beautiful, and far larger than I imagined. He could kill me in an instant, trample me, gouge me with his gleaming antlers.

  But he makes no move. He simply watches, waiting.

  I step forward, keeping my eyes lowered, respectful of the creature I didn’t believe in until this very moment.

  He makes no move as I step to his side, doesn’t shy away when I touch his flank.

  For one fleeting moment, I imagine wishing for Rune. Wish that none of this ever happened, that Conrad was still on his throne, that we ran away before the guards came to collect me.

  Everyone safe, everyone happy. But it will never work. Because the tales say the Golden Stag grants our deepest desires. And my purest desire lies behind me, bleeding into the ground.

  “Save him,” I murmur, closing my eyes. “Please, just save him.”

  He turns, his ageless eyes meeting mine.

  “And send the trolls away,” I tack on—because why not?

  One wish, I hear whispered into my mind. One.

  “You know what I want.”

  I do. Your heart cried out for it. It’s why I came to you.

  A great wind rushes through the forest once more, just like before. And then the stag is gone.

  I turn to Conrad, and my heart sinks. His eyes are closed, and the ground still bears the stains of his wounds.

  I fall on my knees, lowering my head into my hands. Why? Why didn’t the stag save
him?

  Isn’t that what magic is for? If not this, then what?

  “You are horrid at following instructions.”

  I jerk my head up, and my eyes land on Conrad’s open ones. A single scar runs the length of his jaw, a reminder of his brush with death. The blood—it’s still there. But the wounds are knitted, and he is breathing and talking and living and—

  He sits up, wrapping me in his arms, pulling me onto his lap, and holding me like death do us part.

  Which it almost did.

  I begin to sob against him. But these are tears of joy, of extreme relief. “I feel like all I do is cry all over you.”

  “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.” He strokes my hair, pulling me even closer. “I love it when you cry on me. Cry on me all you like.”

  I pull back to meet his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to stab a troll? You make it look easy, but it’s actually quite difficult.”

  He chuckles and gives my arm a nudge. “You saved me this time.”

  Controlling myself, grinning like a fool, I give him a flippant shrug. “I figured it was my turn.”

  His eyes go serious. “You gave him up.”

  Slowly, I bring my hand to Conrad’s face, tracing the scar that will always be there, reminding us of the moment I chose him. The moment I chose us. “It was time.”

  “Will you regret it tomorrow? A week from now? Years later?”

  “No,” I breathe. My finger drifts from his scar to his lips.

  Our eyes meet, and my breath quickens. One heartbeat more, and our mouths crush together, needing, affirming, wanting. He’s warm and insistent and so very alive.

  “I’m glad you didn’t die,” I say against his lips after a long while. “You’re really very good at this, and it would be a shame to rob me of your talent.”

  He lets out a laugh-growl and pulls me back. But I don’t let him, not yet.

  “Conrad?” I ask. “Do you promise to love me and cherish me, from this day forward, from now until forever, until death do us part?”

  “You know I do.” He cups my neck, protective, sincere. “And what about you? Do you promise to love me? Cherish me? All of that?”

  “I do.” And I mean it this time. They’re not words said for the masses. It’s truth, a commitment. He is mine, and I am his. And nothing and no one will tear us apart.