by Sheela Word
letter to the Duc, that he may receive us hospitably.”
King Piers required much persuasion, but at length he agreed that Drusilla’s plan was best.
Drusilla and John prepared quickly for their journey, yet the sun was already high in the sky when they set out. They were on horseback, and a carriage, laden with clothes, food, and costly gifts for the Duc, followed some distance behind.
Although the day was bright and the road good, Drusilla seemed blind to all they passed. Her companion glanced at her from time to time, making remark when he saw a hedgehog scaling a stile, a donkey braying at a kitten, or a raven tugging at a tassel of wheat. Yet he could not win her to a smile.
Drusilla thought of Aubrey’s laughing face, all that he had meant to her, and all that he had said. “How can it be that he does not love me?” she wondered again and again, stroking the neck of her mount, a chestnut stallion that was her father’s favorite and her own. Her head drooped as she remembered the delicate grasp of Margery’s slim fingers on the reins of the little gray mare she favored, a beast as gentle in spirit as Margery herself.
“Ho!” cried John, interrupting Drusilla’s reverie. They had turned off the main road and passed through Middle Cross. John pulled up his horse, and prepared to alight.
“Hath your mount thrown a shoe?” asked Drusilla, pulling on her own reins.
“Nay, but he’s a fool,” said John, leaping to the ground, and pulling a small knife from the soldier’s pouch he wore about his waist.
Drusilla stared, as John rapidly strode back ten paces to confront a large, unseemly rose bush that thrust its thorny arms at passersby.
“This is the beauty I did see,” he said, returning with a full-blown blossom. “A bloom as crimson as wine. Yet the fool of a beast plodded on with nary a glance.” After deftly trimming its stem, he held up the rose that Drusilla might take it; and she tucked it into her girdle, smiling at his absurdity.
Now, as they rode, Drusilla’s heart felt lighter. To pass the time, she asked her companion how long he had been in the Prince’s service.
“Little more than two years,” he said. “In my 18th summer, weary of the sameness of fields and forests, I longed to see a bit o’ the world. So I joined the King’s army. And it was a fine life until the Battle of Glenmoore, when one of the other dragoons, a friendly lad with a handsome face and easy ways, loosed an arrow that went astray. The sight of goose feathers poking out of my doublet so affrighted me that I gave up soldiering then and there.”
“Aubrey fought at the Battle of Glenmoore!” Drusilla interrupted. “He hath often said so.”
“Aye, and my shoulder yet bears the mark of his valor.”
Drusilla laughed.
“To give the lad his due, he speedily fetched the surgeon, and stood by until my strength returned. And then he brought me to court, where his good father saw fit to grant me the office I now hold. But I shall not hold it many more days. Of that I am resolved.”
Drusilla began to ask what John meant to do next, but he suddenly pulled his horse to a stop, and dismounted. “What folly hath the beast committed now?” she asked, halting her own mount.
“I spied a bit of vellum,” he said, collecting a scrap of parchment from the ground, and turning it this way and that. “It appears to be in the Prince’s hand.”
“What doth it say?” demanded Drusilla.
“Indeed, I cannot make it out. It speaks of a lady ‘pale and fair,’ and then there is a blot, and then ‘Tara tara.’ And then ‘old hair,’ it seems to say, though what that means, I know not.”
“John, it must mean ‘golden hair,’” said Drusilla, laughing. “For you know my sister is very fair.”
“Mayhap,” said John, shaking his head. “‘Old hair’” he murmured, remounting his horse.
Now as they rode, they oft observed fragments of parchment, lying on the road or in the shrubs nearby, but did not stop to pick them up, for the way ahead was long.
And indeed it was late in the day when at last they pulled up at the low wall surrounding the Duc’s garden. After they had dismounted and tethered their horses, and Sober John had begun to unlatch the gate, Drusilla caught sight of yet another bit of parchment hanging from the branch of a nearby cherry tree. Retrieving it, she read aloud:
Like to one versed in sorcery,
True Love doth disappear.
Oh, Truant Love, why dost thou flee
From one who holds thee dear?
“Oh, we must make haste!” she exclaimed. “If Margery hath run off, I know not how we shall find her!”
Sober John saw the matter in another light, but said nothing, lengthening his stride to keep pace with hers. Soon they reached the front entrance of the chalet, but the enormous oak door was so fantastically carved with lutes, tambourines, psalteries, and other delicate instruments that Drusilla hesitated an instant before grasping the wrought iron knocker and rapping loudly.
A porter appeared, and Drusilla presented the letter from King Piers, expecting its swift delivery into the Duc’s hands. To her surprise, the servant unsealed it himself, explaining in hushed tones, “His Grace is resting, and must not be disturbed.” This servant was a prancing little fellow, with darting eyes and silver curls, and as he perused the King’s letter, John eyed his yellow tunic with distaste.
“You may enter,” said the porter at last. “His Highness, the Prince, was admitted not an hour past. His Grace, perhaps, may deign to sup with you.” John’s brow took on a look of thunder, but Drusilla hastily inquired, “Where is my sister, the Princess Margery?”
“I know not,” answered the porter. “But Prince Aubrey may be found in the solar chamber.” He clapped his hands to summon a young page.
“Kindly see to our horses,” Sober John instructed the porter, before turning to offer his arm to Drusilla. “And keep watch for the coach that bears our goods.”
“And prithee attend good William, the coachman, with all courtesy,” added Drusilla, taking John’s arm.
They followed the page down a long hallway to a chamber so dark and opulent that Drusilla blinked when they stepped inside. Velvet curtains blocked the sun, and the walls were richly hung with tapestries depicting scenes of love and chivalry.
Prince Aubrey sat near the window, gazing gloomily at an injury to his left hand. The table in front of him was strewn with quills; he had evidently cut himself while sharpening them. Above him was a large and beautiful tapestry showing Cupid in pursuit of Psyche, but his Highness seemed blind to its charms.
Drusilla silently proffered her handkerchief, having earlier replaced the cloth she had given John. Aubrey’s dark eyes met hers briefly as he gave thanks, and she cursed her wayward heart, which beat like a hare’s at sight of the hunter.
“So, your Highness, you have led us a merry dance,” said John severely, as the Prince began to bind his wound.
“I know not how you have come so quickly,” said Aubrey, abstractedly. “But it matters not. Fair Margery must return to court.”
“Where is my sister?” demanded Drusilla. “The servants could not tell us.”
“Fret not. She sleeps nearby. “
“Where may her bedchamber be? I would go to her.”
“I shall take you to her presently….How my head doth ache,” he sighed.
Drusilla and John exchanged glances, then sat down at the table and waited for Aubrey to tell them more.
“Speak straightly, man,” said John at last.
“‘Tis a round tale, and I must tell it so,” came the reply, and in it, Drusilla saw a flash of Aubrey’s former jesting spirit.
“When we set out,” he began at last, “all was bliss. Her Highness sat still and smiling, now with her damask cheek poised on one slim hand, now with her golden head thrown back against the cushion, now with her soft blue eyes meeting mine in wonder. Truly, I was entranced, and my quill, dipped in enchantment, flew across the page to scribe her charms and my adoration. Thus one, and then two, hours passed, the most de
lightful I have ever known. Even the concern I felt at seeing you, dear John, pursuing us astride a pustulent, sway-backed donkey, was soon overcome, for we so soon outdistanced you.”
“Fernanda, I trust, is well,” John remarked.
“Yea, fear not for your mare….At the noon hour, we stopped to take refreshment. Robin pulled up at Crosskeys Inn and procured for us some bread and cheese and a large tankard of the best cider. The Princess ate heartily, and the cider was to her liking, but when she had quaffed the last of it, a shadow fell across her face, though the sun was high above.
“‘My Love, what sadness hath possessed thee?’ I asked, leaning forward, the better to observe her beauteous face.
“‘At court,’ she said, ‘they are having strawberry tart. For Cook did say so. I would that I might have some too.’ And a silvery tear spilled from one luminous eye.”
“Yes,” Drusilla murmured. “Margery hath always favored strawberry tart.”
“Back into Crosskeys went good Robin,” the Prince continued, “And soon returned with a large apple tart, for alas, strawberry was not to be had. The Princess tasted of it, and gave sweet thanks. But still she softly sighed, ‘I would that I had strawberry.’
“Robin took up the reins, and I, marvelling at the childlike simplicity of my Lady, began to pen a hymn to innocence. But the Princess was not so still as she had been. Glancing at what I wrote, she was caught by a phrase ‘Tara tara’ that I had used at stanza’s end. ‘Tara tara,’ she murmured. ‘Tara tara tara