by Alex Flinn
With that, the door shut on any possibility of marrying Princess Eleonora.
That night, I was angry. After the heartbreak with Princess Maria Teresa, Mother had explained that such tests were necessary so that my bride would be not only beautiful and noble, but also intelligent. But Princess Eleonora was intelligent and had presented a well-thought-out argument which merely differed from Mother’s. I began to suspect that Mother simply did not wish me to marry at all.
But did I say any of this to Mother? Indeed, I did not. We put Princess Eleonora in her carriage the next day, and I never saw her again.
“I am sorry, Louis,” she said when she left. “You seemed nice.”
I nodded. “You did too.”
“I have a sister,” she said. “Perhaps you could marry her.”
“Perhaps.” It was seeming unlikely that I’d marry anyone at all.
The next princess failed to remember that Pantagruel had been the title of the first book in Rabelais’s Gargantua series. “A princess must know our French literature, Louis,” Mother said. The mere fact that the princess in question was able to recite, from memory, the inscription on the door of the abbey gate in that book did not impress Mother.
Next came Princesses Frederica, Sophie, and Amelia. They failed Mother’s tests on calculus, crop rotation, and astronomy, respectively.
The princess prospects were dwindling, and with them, my hopes. In fact, there was only one eligible princess left, Princess Maria Luisa, sister of the clever Eleonora. She was scheduled to arrive in the coming weeks.
I was bound and determined to have a wife. I sought to do whatever was necessary to secure one.
Perhaps you think I sat down with Mother and had a talk with her about the necessity of my marrying to prevent the cessation of the French line, and that it did not help this cause to have Mother rejecting perfectly good—nay, perfectly perfect princesses for spurious reasons. If you think that, you have not been listening very carefully to my story. Could I have stood up to Mother, this tale would have ended with my marrying Princess Maria Teresa (whom I still liked and thought about every day), and raising red-haired children.
No. More desperate measures were required.
There was a witch who lived in Paris in the shadows of Notre Dame. I know it is customary to say “a woman rumored to be a witch,” for most such women hide their powers. But about this witch there could be no doubt.
For one thing, it was said she had lived there for close to a century. For another, she had green hair. I did not know whether, perhaps, people in other parts of the world had green hair, but I doubted it.
For another, it was well known that any youth who crossed her might well find himself turned into a frog.
I only found out about her existence because some of my advisors wished to run her out of Paris at least, or burn her at the stake at most.
But when I was told of the witch, I said, “I would like to meet this woman.”
“Meet her?” the Duke of Chatillon asked. “Whatever for?”
“I have my reasons, but it is very important that I see her … and that Mother does not know anything about it.”
The duke frowned. “I do not know that I can do that, Your Highness.” He was afraid of Mother too.
I said, “True, Mother is your queen, but I will be your king someday. Indeed, my father almost died this past summer. Though I am dearly glad he did not, it just shows that circumstances can change in an instant. Surely, it is worthwhile to stand in my good graces if there is no real risk of Mother finding out.”
The duke considered. “I suppose if there was no risk.”
“I certainly would not tell Mother that I saw a witch. If you do not tell her, how is she to know?”
Finally, the duke agreed, and that night we snuck out the back door of the castle where black horses waited to carry us into Paris under cover of darkness. We wore black cloaks too. It was quite an adventure, much like when I snuck out to visit Father, but I would be in even greater trouble if this escapade were discovered.
It was darker still when we reached the witch’s garret. There was no light in the doorway, nor even a candle glowing within. Still the duke knocked on her door.
“Are you certain this is the right place?” I asked. “There is no light.” A bird, a crow or perhaps a raven, swooped down from the door-frame, narrowly missing my head.
“The witch is expecting you, Your Highness, and she has been sworn to secrecy.”
Indeed, the door opened, and a gnarled hand beckoned me in.
It was with great trepidation that I advanced into the garret. What was I doing? There could be an assassin waiting. It could all be a conspiracy.
But I reminded myself that visiting the witch had been my own idea. Besides, one must take risks in order to secure rewards.
I stepped inside.
The dirt floor felt cold even through my shoes, and the room was darker than anyplace I had ever been. The door slammed behind me. I jumped as if I had heard an assassin’s pistol.
But no sooner had the door closed than the room blazed with light, more light than I had ever seen indoors, even at Versailles. Yet there was no flame. I could not see the source of it. The room I occupied seemed spacious and comfortable, unlike the cell I had seen from outside, and the woman who greeted me was beautiful, my own age, and with long black hair. I shielded my eyes and said to the young lady, “I am here to see the witch, Kendra.”
“I am she.”
She did not hold out her hand. I would not have taken it had she done so. She did not curtsey either.
“But…” I remembered the descriptions I had heard, a green-haired crone. Indeed, I recalled the withered claw I had seen only a moment before.
“I can change my shape at will. It comes in handy … in spell casting.”
And in escaping the blame, I suspected, if something went wrong. But I chose not to say it. I had more pressing business.
I squinted in the bright light. Her eyes were the color of emeralds.
“I require your help.”
Those eyes met mine for a moment in what I thought was sympathy.
But then she began to laugh.
“You, the great dauphin of France, need my help?”
“Yes. Yes.”
Her laughter halted abruptly. “And you think me—what? A faerie? Or a genii in a bottle, perhaps. Witches do not grant wishes. We do as we please.”
I was prepared for this, though not for her disrespectful manner of speech. “I will pay you handsomely for your work.” I drew a small sack of coins from my cloak.
“What care I for your money?”
“Most people care quite a bit.”
“Then give it to them. You have enough, and many in Paris are going without. I am not most people. I am none but myself.”
I stepped back, amazed at the cheek of her. “And I am your prince. I could order you beheaded if I wished, or hanged.”
“If you could find me.” She waved her arm, and in an instant, she was gone. In her place was only a black crow. It flew at me, and I shielded my face. When I uncovered it, another woman stood before me. She had red hair and was the image of Princess Maria Teresa. I gasped.
But when she spoke, Kendra’s voice came out instead. “The ones hanged as witches were not witches. Real witches cannot be caught, and I am a real witch.”
Staring into her eyes, especially now that she was disguised as the princess I had most wanted to marry but would now never see again, I felt about to boil over with frustration and rage.
“Please!” I begged. “Please, you must help me! You are my only hope, the only one to whom I can turn!” And then I poured out the whole story of six princesses, mine for the asking, six princesses gone. I will spare you the details of my crying and gnashing of teeth, but suffice it to say that teeth were, indeed, gnashed. “My mother is determined to sabotage every possibility. You must stop her.”
Kendra waved her hand and turned into a crone. �
��You say that by helping you, I would be thwarting your mother’s wishes.” This seemed to interest her. At least, her toothless mouth formed a slow grin.
“Yes. Yes! She does not wish me to marry. This is clear from her conduct.”
Kendra scratched a wart on her long nose, then turned back into a young woman. “I am sorry. ’Tis uncomfortable to be old. I would very much like to upset your mother. She has been no friend to my kind.”
It was true. Although the Parlement of Paris had convicted fewer women of witchcraft in recent decades, this was due not at all to my family’s influence, and witch hunts still occurred in outlying parts of France.
“I sometimes feel quite burned by her myself.” Kendra twisted her long hair, and it seemed to grow longer still. “It would please me to best her. I will do it.”
“Good. But how?”
With a wave of her hand, Kendra changed shapes again. I gasped. She was an exact replica of Lady Agnes, one of Mother’s ladies-in-waiting. “I will ascertain the sort of test your mother intends to use, and then I will make certain Princess Maria Luisa passes.”
“What will you do with Lady Agnes?”
“Something temporary,” Kendra replied. “The only payment I ask is that I be invited to your wedding. It would please me to see your mother required to entertain a witch.”
I agreed to this, and we arranged that I would contact her through the duke as soon as Princess Maria Luisa arrived.
In those next weeks, I began to hope again. In a month’s time, the princess’s ship entered our harbor, and the castle’s four thousand servants flew to the task of entertaining her.
I watched Lady Agnes, searching for signs that she was not, in fact, Lady Agnes. I found none. I would have, though, had I examined the upstairs scullery closet, for that is where, as I later found out, the real Lady Agnes slept peacefully for a period of four days.
As for Princess Maria Luisa, she seemed a pleasant enough girl, though after what had happened with Princess Maria Teresa (the memory of whom still invaded my dreams), I tried not to fall in love with her. Still, we discussed the usual subjects of young men and women—riding and dance and whether imported goods should be taxed at the same rate as domestic. She was charming and pretty enough that I hoped she would pass.
We continued these subjects over dinner, though it turned out that the princess was a great lover of art.
“I have heard,” she said, “that you have in your collection a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, called La Joconde, in which the woman’s eyes appear to follow one around the room?”
I nodded. “Yes. It hangs in Versailles. It belonged to my great-great-grandfather.”
“I would love to see it.”
I nodded. I knew the princess was trying to impress my mother with her knowledge of the art that hung in our palace, but I was so busy waiting for the quiz that I could barely hear her. I also knew that if the princess indicated an interest in art, Mother would choose a different subject for her test.
“They say that the woman in the painting is quite plain, but her smile is enigmatic,” the princess said.
“Mmm,” I replied. Why was Mother so quiet?
“Can you tell me about some of the other art I might see here?” the princess asked.
Had Kendra cast a spell upon Mother so that she would not be mean to the princess? It was too much to hope for. Still, I would not mind.
“Your Highness, I asked—”
“What?” I stared at her. “Oh, yes, of course. I will arrange a tour after dinner. It would be my pleasure.” It would. After all, perhaps I was speaking to my future wife.
For the rest of dinner, Mother was the soul of politeness, and as we had dessert in the drawing room (the first time I had done so with any princess—the rest left in tears), I wondered whether we would marry in France or Spain. Even the princess looked relieved. Of course, she had heard of Mother’s test from her sister.
But as I dressed for bed (having sent the servants away—and thank goodness I had) with the extra care taken by a lad who intended to propose marriage the next day, there was a rap at the window.
This would have been less upsetting had my apartment not been on the third floor.
At first, I thought to ignore it, but so persistent did it become that I could not do so. Finally, I opened the casement. No sooner had I done so than a black crow hopped inside.
“Kendra?”
The crow turned into a woman. “Ooh, fancy diggings. Your family had better watch out—this castle’s going to get you in trouble someday.”
“I really don’t—”
“Trust me—kkkkkkk.” She made a crude gesture, running her finger across her throat as if beheading herself.
“You should not be in my room. It is improper.”
Kendra laughed. “What is proper in any of this?”
I nodded. “Of course. I should be grateful to you. Princess Maria Luisa has passed the test. We shall be married.”
Kendra stared at me. “Passed? The princess has not passed any test, not yet.”
There was ice in her voice, and it invaded my bones. “She has not?”
Kendra shook her head, a gesture very crowlike, which caused the light to reflect off the green and purple highlights in her black hair. Finally, she said, “The test is still to come.”
Of course. It was too easy. Mother had something up her long, lacy sleeve to make certain Princess Maria Luisa had to work and work hard for the dubious prize of my hand.
“The test will happen in the night,” Kendra said.
“The night? What sort of test—?”
Kendra did not smile. “Do not fear. I will make it impossible for Maria Luisa to fail.”
And then, before I could say another word, she turned back into a crow and flew away.
The test will happen in the night. The words haunted me, as words do when one knows one has done wrong. They brought a shadow over the light of happiness I had felt just moments earlier. I entered my bedchamber with great trepidation and did not sleep at all. What sort of test could happen in the night?
Around midnight, I thought I heard a thumping noise. I fumbled for a light, unwilling to rouse the servants, but it stopped before I could rise to investigate.
As the clock struck two, there was a muffled groaning of some sort. But, again, it faded quickly. Or perhaps I was simply too afraid of what I might find. Yes, that was it. I did not sleep more than ten minutes at a time the whole night.
When morning finally dawned, I went to the dining room to find Mother. She looked extremely well rested and embraced me. “Dear son, you are here. Now we will find out together whether Princess Maria Luisa passed my test.”
“Test? What test?”
She looked away, adjusting her hood over her lace cap as if nothing of any importance was happening. “A simple test to ascertain whether the princess possesses the delicate nature of a true princess. Lady Agnes helped me dream it up. You see, last night, we placed—”
“Oh, what has become of me?”
It was the princess. Mother held up her hand, and we both turned to look. Then, to gape.
The princess looked nothing like the cheery, normal girl I had met yesterday. Indeed, she resembled someone who had been through some horrible ordeal, a shipwreck perhaps (maybe involving one of Mother’s icebergs) or a rock slide. Her wig was off, and her hair stuck out in all directions as if she could not be bothered to brush it or, perhaps, as if she had brushed it only to find it would not obey. Her clothes—she still wore her dressing gown—were wrinkled, askew, and slightly damp. Her face looked ashen. When she saw me, she fixed me with a pleading look. On whole, she was more like a refugee of war than a princess.
“Did you sleep well, Your Highness?” Mother’s voice was made of sugar.
“Sleep well.” The princess repeated the words as if Mother had spoken in tongues. “No. No, I did not sleep well.”
I remembered the sounds in the night and, looking at the princess
’s face, I began to imagine what might have happened. But I did not have to imagine long for the princess was more than happy to share her tale of woe.
“I began the night comfortably enough on the twenty mattresses you provided.”
“Twenty mattresses?” I stared at Mother who, again, seemed quite interested in her hood.
“It was a bit high,” the princess said, “and I am afraid of heights, but Lady Agnes insisted this was the French custom, and I knew the French were prone to excess. I did not wish to offend, even though the featherbeds swayed a bit when I ascended them, and I needed some help reaching the top. But once I turned out the lights, I pretended I was on the ground, and I was comfortable enough.”
“Comfortable?” Mother looked surprised, then pleased. “So you felt no discomfort?”
“Mother, how could she be uncomfortable on twenty mattresses?” I asked.
“Well, I wasn’t at first,” the princess said, “but after a few minutes, it seemed like the mattresses began to move. Indeed, they … turned on me.”
“Turned on you?” I said.
“They tried to eat me!”
I could only stare. The princess had gone mad. That was the only explanation. Gone mad, and as she was the very last princess of suitable age, I would remain a bachelor forever. Even I could not fault Mother for refusing to allow my union with a princess who was insane.
And yet, Mother seemed unsurprised as the princess described her ordeal.
“Yes, you heard right,” the princess said. “The mattresses tried to eat me. At least, one of them did. The ticking opened up and tried to swallow me. I have the feathers to prove it!” She pulled a handful of them from her dressing gown pocket. “I managed to escape with my life and beat it to the ground when a second mattress attacked, then a third. But when I reached for the fourth, it was not in the mood for warfare. Rather, it began to hum.”
“Hum?” Mother asked.
“Would you care for some tea, Your Highness?” I tried to change the subject. “You look like you could use some.”