The Lost Kingdom of Bamarre

by Gail Carson Levine

  I would go west, where the soldiers had already been, and she’d travel east, where her task would be harder. People who hadn’t yet lost their children would be less ready for our message, and she’d have to deliver the terrible tidings of the Beneficences.

  “Before you leave a family,” I said, “tell the people to spread the rebellion to nearby villages—to save you time—and take another step in the boots.” If only the boots would stop wherever their wearer wanted! Annet, not a fast walker, might have to walk miles to reach a village.

  They were all frowning at me.

  “Oh!” I’d given orders again. This didn’t bode well. “Beg pardon.”

  We left soon after. I visited a family in each of three villages, knocking on only the humblest cottages to ensure the residents were Bamarre.

  In the very first, I made my mistake before I spoke even a word, by banging on the door. I knew the timid Bamarre tap—light and quick—but knowledge sank beneath worry over my coming performance. The goodman and his wife believed me a Lakti impostor, and nothing I said, including my desperate poetry recitation, changed their minds.

  Not that they expressed their suspicions. They listened. They nodded, but I was enough of a Bamarre to understand. And enough of a Bamarre not to try another cottage in the village. If one family believed me to be a Lakti, the others would be afraid to disagree.

  In the second village, the goodman, his wife, and their grown daughter agreed with me—a child of the family had been taken—until I gave an order without noticing. “Spread the rebellion! We’ll succeed only if . . .” I trailed off, seeing their faces. “Beg pardon!”

  They chimed in with the first part of the saying, which I finished, but I saw from their faces that the damage had been done.

  The goodman asked, “Does King Einar know about your rebellion? Does he approve?”

  I admitted he was unaware of it.

  The goodwife said, “Alas, the village is unlikely to act without our king’s consent.”

  All the people who’d ever judged me—Lady Mother, Mistress Clarra, Annet, my parents—clamored in my mind to say I was disappointing them.

  And I was failing Drualt.

  By the time I reached the third village, the night was half over. Why enter a cottage if I was going to fail?

  Mama had said I should admit my fear.

  Willem didn’t hide his feelings.

  In Gavrel I’d succeeded when I’d talked about what I was going to do. But wasn’t it prideful to talk about myself?

  Yes, if it was boasting, but I had nothing to boast about.

  I tapped on the door.

  After a minute, a goodwife cracked the door. She held a babe against her chest.

  “Across the Eskerns. Please pardon the intrusion.”

  She let me in, as the others had.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid . . .” Afraid they wouldn’t believe me, but afraid of what most of all? “Afraid I’ll fail. I’ve failed before. Afraid my great-nephew will die.”

  She led me to the bench by their table.

  Her goodman said, “Please sit.”

  Maybe I began with Drualt because he was my most important reason, more important than Halina or even the injustices of Bamarre life. I described how sturdy he was, how brave, how kind, and how young but how old for his age. Only Lakti toughness kept me from weeping.

  The goodman and goodwife sat across from me. Both nodded with my words.

  I didn’t rush. I told them how many young people Gavrel had lost and how we’d decided together what to do. They laughed when I described Goodwife Dyrin’s antics and our culinary insurrection—and sobered when they heard about Soldier Kassia’s sword. I had to explain why soldiers were stationed in the village.

  “Yet you still went ahead.” The goodman sounded admiring.

  I nodded. “But the sword came out quickly.” Then I smiled. “There aren’t enough swords to be everywhere.”

  The goodwife asked about King Einar, and I confessed that we hadn’t consulted him. “We haven’t had time.”

  Silence fell. I feigned Bamarre patience.

  Finally, the goodwife grinned. “Soon I’m to trim the master’s beard and cut the mistress’s hair.” The grin widened. “I can help them be ugly on the outside, too.”

  The goodman said, “Begging your pardon, Grandmother. We’ll have to discuss this with the village.”

  Of course.

  “We may persuade them. I’ll try.”

  “Thank you. We’re hoping other villages will join us.” I didn’t say we’d be crushed otherwise, but they had to know. “If you decide to join us, would you spread the word?”

  The goodman nodded. “Begging your pardon, but it might help if you had a note from the king.”

  When I left, the night was too advanced for me to visit another village. At home, Mama and Poppi passed me back and forth for hugs! Annet nodded at me from the fireplace bench.

  Poppi said, “I don’t like staying behind. I’d be happier if I were in danger, too.”

  Where was the Bamarre coward?

  Annet had succeeded with only one of the two families she’d visited. “Both asked if King Einar approved, and both wanted a letter. I couldn’t tell them how useless he is against Lord Tove.”

  Over the next week, the villagers became increasingly inventive with their mischief, and two soldiers couldn’t be everywhere. Annet and I ventured farther and farther from home, begging people to join our outbreak. Annet had more success than I did, but I improved. Still, most families wanted King Einar’s blessing.

  Meanwhile, the widow’s daughter set off on horseback, riding to King Canute to ask for aid.

  At home, at the end of the week, I announced, Lakti-fashion, without discussion, “Tomorrow night, I’ll go to King Einar.”

  No one disagreed.

  The next morning, at sword point again, we prepared a mediocre meal. Soldier Kassia wouldn’t leave me alone in the kitchen, so I entered the solar with Mama and Annet. While they were serving, someone rapped on the Ships’ door.

  I was standing behind the twins, across the table from his Master-ship, whose jaw tightened, but he seemed unsurprised.

  He stood without complaining about the interrupted meal. “Come!”

  I thought he meant just his family until Soldier Kassia herded us out into the road, where Soldier Joram had Goodman Meerol, the young man who was sweet on Annet, by the neck of his tunic. The soldier’s horsewhip girdled his waist.

  Goodman Meerol’s narrow face was set. His eyes, which found Annet, gave nothing away.

  His Master-ship told Soldier Kassia to assemble the rest of the village. While she hurried off, he asked Soldier Joram, “What is the offense?”

  “He pruned green apricots and failed to harvest the ripe, except the one he was eating when I caught him.” Soldier Joram pulled back his own shoulders. “I stalked him like a lion.”

  Proud of sneaking up on an unarmed man? And a reedy one at that.

  The widow and the Bamarre who weren’t in the fields joined us. The widow held a coil of rope.

  I didn’t doubt that I could snatch Soldier Joram’s sword and that Soldier Kassia wouldn’t be able to match my swordplay, but I’d be revealed as more than an old lady.

  Soldier Joram had Goodman Meerol remove his tunic and undershirt. Then he drew his prisoner’s hands through the rusted rings on the whipping post and bound his wrists with the widow’s rope. If Goodman Meerol struggled, his wrists would bleed, as well as his back.

  Lady Mother had kept me away from floggings, but I knew people died sometimes. Lord Tove had said Bamarre weakness had killed them.

  Annet sent me a look of appeal. I shook my head. However, I’d count the lashes. If the whip landed fewer than twenty-five times, even the infirm survived.

  I wouldn’t let Goodman Meerol die.

  Soldier Joram unwound his horsewhip.

  Goodman Fiske, Goodman Meerol’s father, cried, “He’s
sorry! Soldier Joram, please don’t whip him!” He wheeled on His Master-ship. “Please have pity on my boy!”

  If His Master-ship had given in, that would likely have finished our rebellion. I doubted anyone would have had the anger to continue.

  But His Master-ship nodded at Soldier Joram. “Begin.”

  The whip was leather with a tip of brass that was fashioned into the shape of a star with seven cruel points. Soldier Joram snapped it on the ground and then on Goodman Meerol’s back.

  Soldier Kassia intoned, “One!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SEVERAL OF US cried out, but Goodman Meerol made not a sound. Beads of blood dotted his skin, marking the line the whip had made. His back was to us, so we couldn’t see his expression.

  “Two!” Soldier Kassia grabbed Goodman Fiske before he could reach his son.

  Goodman Meerol must have heard the motion and understood. “I’m all right, Father.”

  Goodwife Dyrin and Goodman Walde stationed themselves at Goodman Fiske’s side, for comfort, I was sure, and to prevent rash action.

  By the tenth lash, Goodman Meerol’s back was scored by the whip. I reminded myself that Goodman Walde had herbs to lessen pain.

  On the fifteenth lash, Goodman Meerol let out a short cry, followed by a weak “I’m fine.”

  Annet’s glare bore into me. I ignored her anger. I had my own to keep down.

  On the eighteenth lash I began to plan. Take Soldier Kassia’s sword in one long, satisfying pull. Run her through and silence her numerical song. Leap upon Soldier Joram. Stop his whip arm forever.

  After the twentieth lash, His Master-ship told Soldier Joram to stop. “Cut him free. Next time will be worse.” He turned to Mama. “Come. I want to finish my dinner.”

  Mama and I went inside, but Annet helped Goodman Fiske support the bleeding man as they walked to his father’s cottage. Goodman Walde ran to his own cottage for his healing herbs.

  The immediate consequence of the flogging was that Goodman Meerol, from his sickbed, asked Annet to marry him, and she accepted.

  And she forgave me for not saving him. “He might have taken years to find the courage to propose.”

  I congratulated her. “I wouldn’t have let him die.”

  That night Annet visited more villages and I headed west under clear skies and a three-quarter moon, with the magic snail shell in my purse, because Annet and our parents ruled that I needed it more than she did.

  Yes, I was at risk. We all were. We’d plunged into a swift river of danger.

  Though I’d never been to King Einar’s residence, I knew it lay three miles south of Lord Tove’s castle. As the boot slowed at the top of a hill, I saw ahead the flickering lights of a town or a castle. The boot stopped in a forest, where I exchanged boots and set out. The lights proved to come from both town and castle, the castle my old home.

  The drawbridge was up. Torch-bearing sentries paced the battlements.

  Part of me wished Halina had never visited me and I was sleeping in my old bed with a resentful Annet nearby on her pallet. If the old Perry were wakeful, she’d feel secure in Lord Tove’s love and might be smiling, anticipating a race.

  Best of all, Willem wouldn’t have been pushed from a tower.

  How young she was, that Perry.

  Lady Mother might be home now, running the castle. I wished I could talk to her. She’d oppose our revolt, but she’d be proud of me for starting it.

  Too risky. I kept to the trees until the woods ended. The magic shell assured me that no travelers moved on the road ahead or behind, though traffic, even at night, was common this close to the castle. The houses on either side were closed up for the night. I expected dogs to bark, but I doubted their owners would let them out.

  I ran, happy to be moving, imagining how I looked, a fleet old lady.

  The king’s residence—a large stone house—proved easy to find, because the yard was clogged with half a dozen carts, and the carts, when I lifted a canvas cover, contained King Einar’s merchandise—shoes. The Beneficences kept his drivers, who were certainly Bamarre, from traveling without permission letters. Apparently, letters hadn’t been provided.

  A bas-relief on the manor door lintel showed an upside-down crown, representing Bamarre’s sad estate. A lamp burned in what was probably the kitchen, if the house followed the same plan as the Ships’.

  After my tap, a few minutes passed until a yawning maidservant opened the door. Behind her in the vestibule stood King Einar himself, holding a lamp. Behind him, in shadow, a woman stood. Queen Greta? I thought so. Young Prince Bruce was probably asleep in the nursery, and Prince Dahn might be sleeping, too. Surely, even Lord Tove wouldn’t have taken a Bamarre prince to fight for the Lakti.

  “Across the Eskerns.” I curtsied.

  The maid stepped aside.

  I entered. “I am Nadira.”

  “Across the Eskerns.” King Einar dismissed the servant, who climbed the stairs.

  Surprising me, his wife took my hand and preceded me into the kitchen, where the king hung the lamp on a hook next to a cupboard.

  “More ill tidings?” King Einar asked. He stood, arms hanging, as if unsure what to do next.

  Queen Greta led me to a chair by the cold fireplace. “Please sit, Grandmother Nadira.”

  The chair even had arms. His Master-ship owned no armchairs.

  I sat and saw that the eyes of both my monarchs were red. What was amiss? The Beneficences? Or something worse?

  Only a Lakti would question the Bamarre king, so I just waited.

  Taking him by the elbow, Queen Greta guided her husband into a chair facing me. Then she pumped water into a tumbler and brought it to me. I thanked her and sipped.

  Next, she filled a small bowl with almonds and another with strawberries and set both on a stool between her husband and me. Finally, she brought a stool for herself and sat next to the king. When she sat, her belly mounded. She was pregnant.

  King Einar seemed to come out of himself. “Pardon me. What have you come to beg of me?”

  Still pompous.

  “Highness, I do have a request.” I swallowed. “I would like a letter. Two letters, if you please.” One for Annet.

  He nodded. “Letters.”

  What did that mean?

  Queen Greta said, “Please eat something.”

  I made the polite response. “If you will join me.”

  She took a single almond, and so did I. It would be greedy to gobble more and rude to reveal what I wanted the letter to say without being asked. We sat in silence.

  The king said, “It is good for us Bamarre to be together in terrible times.”

  Was this the beginning of a poem proverb no one had taught me?

  Now the silence felt expectant, whether it really was or not. I racked my brain for a rhyme with times. Crimes? Grimes? Slimes? Most likely chimes, but what would the rest of it be?

  I sipped my water. Maybe another poem would do. What? Something about royalty might please him. I spoke slowly, willing the words to come:

  “Those who descend farthest,

  Deepest, most uplift us,

  Ennoble our service—

  Monarchs of Bamarre.”

  He nodded solemnly at the words. I dared to feel pleased until he frowned. “Your delivery is excellent. I’ve heard it before. Greta, do you recognize it?”

  Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t been there the day Lord Tove slapped their son.

  I waited. King Einar didn’t deign to ask me when I’d recited in his presence, which saved me from having to lie. The silence stretched. I wondered why they’d been weeping before I came.

  The king shrugged heavily. “Letters to the Lakti will do no good. They don’t listen to me.”

  My tassel ticked across my forehead as I shook my head. “To your Bamarre.”

  Queen Greta said, “Will you do us the kindness of explaining what the letter is to say?”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “We’ve
started a rebellion in the east.”

  They said nothing.

  “My great-nephew was taken.”

  Their eyes fastened on mine. I continued as if I were in a humble cottage. “Some villages have joined, but many want your approval in a letter before they do, too. We would like two letters, if you please, one for my great-niece and one for me. If you please, they’d say the same thing.” He wouldn’t have to think of words twice.

  “In a rebellion, more of us will be killed,” Queen Greta said.

  Politeness prevented any contradiction, and she was right anyway. I nodded.

  She added, “We’re a precious people.”

  I knew that now.

  “Lord Tove wants to wipe us all out,” King Einar said.

  His wife took another almond. “What will your rebellion accomplish, begging your pardon, Grandmother?”

  Your rebellion, not ours.

  “Our master dispatched a message to King Canute, asking him to send soldiers to his aid. If he does and then has to send more to other villages, his war against the Kyngoll will be hampered.”

  “So?” King Einar said, royally forgetting to be polite.

  I bobbed my head in a sort of seated bow. “Majesty, begging your pardon, the Lakti respect only strength.”

  The king remembered his manners. “If you please, Grandmother”—and forgot them again—“that isn’t an answer.”

  I exhaled a long breath. “If the war is going badly because of us, we’ll have something to bargain with.”

  “Bargain for what?” King Einar said.

  I squeezed my hands together, putting all my nervousness in them and managing to keep my voice calm. “For permission to cross the Eskerns.”

  “Not for the Beneficences to be rescinded?”

  “For that, too.” I hoped I wasn’t about to contradict either of them. “Begging your pardon, if just the Beneficences are ended, we’ll merely be returned to our old misery.”

  Silence.

  Uneasily, I added, “Not everyone in Gavrel wants to cross. Most of all, we want our children returned to us.”