The Legendary Inge

by Kate Stradling

  “Is Baron Adelborg not well, that he would disobey my royal summons and send his wife and child alone?” King Halvard mildly inquired.

  Lady Adelborg tittered. “Your Majesty, how you tease! Alas, the baron was called away this morning to attend some business at our country estate. Your summons arrived after he had already departed. His wife and child bring you his congratulations on this happiest of occasions.”

  She and Lina dropped together in a curtsey. Lina’s critical eyes flitted to Inge, a glance that was so brief that Inge instantly questioned whether she had imagined it. Lady Adelborg never even looked at her. The mother-daughter pair moved to the opposite side of the room to join the clustered nobles along the wall.

  The herald called another family name.

  Inge’s heart sank deeper with each passing second. The ceremony of it all made her position at the castle seem permanent. What would happen, she thought desperately, if she stood up right this moment and announced to the growing crowd of nobles that she was a girl?

  Captain Bergstrom’s warning rang in her ears. The king would execute her.

  And every last person here would enjoy the spectacle. The commoners loved to see one of their own elevated, but the noblemen obviously abhorred this practice.

  King Halvard, ironically, was shielding her from their contempt even as he exposed her to it. No one dared speak out against him. Instead, they all wore brittle smiles and forced congeniality. Inge tried to display a harmless expression, but this grew more difficult as the introductions continued. She resented the nobles almost as much as they resented her.

  “Count and Countess Sparre, and the Honorable Mikkel Sparre,” cried the herald.

  A slight, jerking movement caught the corner of Inge’s eyes. She glanced toward Signe. The princess’s color heightened even as she maintained an almost perfect composure. Inge looked to the trio progressing to the throne. Count Sparre and his wife carried with them a sullen, disappointed atmosphere. Their son, Mikkel, wholesome-faced and crestfallen, pointedly looked anywhere but at the princess.

  The lovelorn suitor was thus betrayed.

  Count Sparre dropped into a practiced bow. “Your Majesty, the Sparre family wishes you many felicitations on this glad occasion.” He sounded like Eirik and Einar when Inge forced them to say thanks for a dinner of vegetables. As he straightened, however, his eyes rested on the king’s proclaimed heir. “You have accomplished an admirable feat, young warrior,” he admitted, and then he led his wife away.

  In his wake, Mikkel Sparre hesitated. He was handsome—blond-haired and blue-eyed, with the closely groomed beard and mustache that most of the noblemen wore, but lacking in their general malice. Jerkily he bowed to Inge. “Your bravery is to be commended,” he muttered.

  As he followed his parents, his gaze momentarily met Signe’s. Resolutely he looked away again. Her shoulders sagged. Inge watched askance as King Halvard lightly squeezed his daughter’s hand, his attention fixed on the next set of nobles yet to come.

  The Sparres knew they had been jilted. Halvard really had not approved of the match, Inge decided.

  At long last, the procession petered out. King Halvard stood, and a hush fell over the gathered crowd.

  “With the night-walker vanquished, my great hall shall return to its former splendor. I hope that each of you at some point in the coming days will join me at my table—me, my daughter, and my son, he who vanquished the monster from our midst.”

  As the king descended to leave, one of the bolder nobles answered. “Your Majesty, had we known the prize in store, any one of us might have tried our luck at vanquishing the beast.”

  “And any one of you would have died a grisly death for your efforts,” King Halvard retorted. He exited the room without another word, Signe and Inge on his heels and an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

  In the dimly lit hallway beyond, hidden from the crowd of nobles, King Halvard abruptly turned. “Colonel Raske,” he said, and Inge realized that the two military commanders had followed the royal family. Colonel Raske stood ready for his orders. “My son is tired from the events of the day. See that he returns to his room safely, and order the kitchen to send his supper up to him.”

  On those words, he strode away, dictatorial confidence in his bearing. Princess Signe spared Inge an apologetic glance before she followed.

  “The sooner you obey the king, the sooner you can return to your own napping,” Captain Bergstrom wryly told the colonel. He clapped him on the shoulder and departed in the opposite direction.

  Inge cobbled together her wits. “He didn’t even ask if I was tired!”

  “Aren’t you, though?” Raske replied. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.”

  “And if I don’t please?”

  “You’re small enough to carry.”

  With a growl of frustration, she turned on her heel. Raske escorted her through the halls, his footsteps measured beside her shorter gait. When they arrived at her room, he opened the door and motioned her inside.

  “I don’t need to confiscate your bedsheets, do I?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Your supper should arrive soon. The royal family eats early in the spring and summertime.”

  She looked up at him, really looked. He seemed somehow both young and old to her at the same time—a beardless face that bore the responsibility of a seasoned warrior. “Gunnar doesn’t know the first thing about cooking,” she said. “It would be better if my supper were sent to my family.”

  Raske remained unmoved. “Your brother is resourceful. Your family will survive the night.”

  “They’re not sending me home tomorrow, are they,” she guessed.

  “Only time can tell.” Again he motioned her inside.

  In resignation, she passed through the doorway. The colonel was right: Gunnar was resourceful. He might not be able to cook, but he could find others to do the cooking for him. Thus, when her supper came—the most food she’d seen in weeks—she ate it, and when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, she curled up on the huge, downy bed and fell asleep.

  Somehow, she had survived the day with no real harm to herself. It was more than she’d hoped for when she’d left the house that morning.

  ***

  Pale sunlight filtered through the bedroom windows when a heavy knock roused Inge from sleep. Disoriented and certain she was dreaming, she trudged to the door.

  Out in the hall, Colonel Raske coughed and averted his eyes. Inge looked down to discover that she had slept in her shirt, and that it only fell to her mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare. She gasped and slammed the door shut again.

  “Just a minute,” she called as she scrambled to locate her trousers. Once they were secured around her waist, she opened the door again.

  Colonel Raske wore a perturbed expression. He stood at rigid attention, and his eyes did not so much as glance down upon her diminutive figure. “Forgive my early intrusion, Your Highness.”

  “Stop it,” said Inge. “I’m the one who forgot where I was and wandered to the door without thinking.”

  Raske kept his eyes trained forward. “King Halvard has requested that His Highness Prince Inge be started on formal training, as befits a prince of his status. My men and a selection of the castle guard stand at the ready.”

  Inge couldn’t make heads or tails of this announcement. “Formal training at what?”

  “The martial arts, Your Highness.”

  She almost slammed the door in his face again. The royal army didn’t allow girls to learn martial arts. Inge had had to beg her father to teach her as much as he did, but it was generally frowned upon, and she had long ago despaired of further training. But now, just because she was supposed to be a boy, she was invited to train alongside the most elite of all King Halvard’s troops.

  That instinctive anger gave way to opportunism, though. She liked physical activity, and she couldn’t very well spend her whole day locked in this huge, boring room.


  “Let me get my boots. Is there a uniform I’m supposed to wear?”

  “Captain Bergstrom said that one was provided to you.”

  Inge frowned, and her gaze darted to the bureau. Hesitantly, she pulled open the drawers one after the other to discover that they had been stocked with clothing—men’s clothing, of course.

  “Huh,” she said.

  The uniform was in the third drawer, a simple shirt and trousers that she recognized as similar to the one Gunnar had received when he first joined the military. “Give me a minute to change, and I’ll be ready.”

  As she disappeared behind the dressing screen, Raske silently leaned forward and shut the door between them. Living in a small house with a number of siblings had done nothing for Inge’s sense of modesty, but she would have been perfectly concealed by the screen alone. The castle people really were prudes.

  When she emerged from her room, her face freshly washed and her small uniform crisp, Raske surveyed her critically, as a commanding officer would survey a new recruit. “It’ll do,” he said at last, a note of long-suffering in his voice.

  Inge scowled and silently fell into step behind him. She let her eyes wander from the narrow gray stones of the hallway to the wooden spiral stairs they descended. They passed through a warm, fragrant kitchen, where servants worked in silent industry. Raske paused to select an apple from a basket. This he mutely handed to Inge. As he looked around for something more substantial, she said, “This is fine. I don’t want to eat anything heavy before I train.”

  “You’re too thin,” he replied.

  The remark set her teeth on edge. “I’ll eat afterward, Colonel Raske.”

  One of Raske’s eyebrows arched, but she did not falter beneath that superior gaze.

  Suddenly, they both realized that the industry of the kitchen had died, and that several pairs of nervous eyes honed in upon their battle of wills.

  “As Your Highness wishes,” Raske said, and stiffly he continued out the door to the yard. Inge spared an anxious glance toward the servants before darting after him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she caught up. “I really will eat something more later, I promise.” To emphasize this, she took a hearty bite of her apple. She didn’t know why she was trying so hard to please Colonel Raske, but somehow it felt wrong for her to have challenged him where others could see.

  He didn’t respond, much to her ire.

  They crossed a side-yard and circled toward the front of the castle. Here, in the broader courtyard, a company of men worked through a series of sword exercises. Their movements became crisper, more controlled as the individual soldiers each realized Colonel Raske’s advent. The man who barked out commands abruptly called them to order. He turned to salute.

  Raske nodded a curt acknowledgement. “By King Halvard’s orders, Prince Inge will train with us today. Lind, fetch him a practice sword.”

  A stocky young man immediately darted to a weapons rack and returned with a wooden sword. Inge took it from him reluctantly. The balance on it was almost as good as the practice sword she had ruined the previous morning. Silence crowded her ears; she looked up in confusion to discover that all of the soldiers were warily watching as Raske studied her.

  “What?” she said to him defensively.

  “I think an evaluation is in order,” Raske replied. “You defeated the night-walker yesterday, so you must have some skill.”

  Inge did not answer. The colonel knew her brother was a soldier, but Gunnar had not been one long enough to have passed on any sword-fighting skills to her. Besides that, Gunnar himself had gone into the military already proficient at swordplay. Inge wasn’t about to volunteer information about where that skill had originated.

  “Lind,” said Raske, and the stocky soldier straightened, “spar with the prince.”

  The rows of soldiers immediately moved to create a circle around the pair. Lind was easily a head taller and probably weighed double what Inge did. She cast a crusty glare toward Raske but could detect no malice in his studious expression. He had retreated to just within the circle, his arms folded as he watched.

  Inge turned back to Lind, who stood at the ready.

  “I’ll go easy on you, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Why?” she replied peevishly. “What sort of evaluation would that be?”

  This comment elicited several murmurs among the watching soldiers and a hint of a smile from Raske. Lind merely arched his eyebrows and shrugged. With no further warning, he attacked.

  Although she had practiced swordplay for years now, Inge was not particularly strong. Her slight frame did not build muscle easily, nor would she have wanted it to, but her father had taught her to use this to her advantage. Instead of brute strength, she was lithe and quick. Her spar with Lind, she imagined, looked much like a rabbit facing down an ox. She had little chance of felling him, so she dedicated all her focus on avoiding any physical contact with his weapon. If he hit her, she would be lucky with just a bruise.

  Lind might have held back at first, but as Inge continued to dodge his attacks, to dart aside and settle a token hit upon his rearward, he began to get angry. She was certain that he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, where his opponents were of similar strength and bulk. Even for as big as he was he was surprisingly quick—just not quick enough for someone who had been taught to use speed as her greatest ally.

  By the time Raske finally called out an order to stop, both Inge and Lind were sweating, and both breathed heavily. Inge’s shoulder ached from a hit her opponent had made when her guard had slipped, but she was too prideful to nurse it in front of him. Instead, she simply waited for Raske to make his assessment.

  The other soldiers, too, kept very still in anticipation of the commanding officer’s words.

  “Your style is similar to Lang’s,” Raske said at last, “but it’s been well adapted to suit your specific strengths. Who taught you?”

  Inge pressed her lips together, mutely refusing to answer. Raske arched one eyebrow again but did not push the issue. “I commend your teacher, whoever he was, Your Highness. Lind, Modig, Dalstrom, the prince will train with you. Everyone else, divide into groups and complete your morning exercises.”

  Inge turned apprehensively toward Lind. She had never hit him hard, but she had done it often enough to cause embarrassment. She discovered a strange expression on his face.

  “You know Lang?” he asked.

  “Gunnar’s my brother,” Inge said, and Lind’s brows shot up.

  “What’s this?” asked one of the two soldiers who joined the pair.

  “Lang is the prince’s brother,” Lind told them.

  “That explains the similarities in their sword-styles,” said the second. “Who taught you, Your Highness? Lang refuses to say anything about where he picked up his skill.”

  Inge thought it best to change the subject. “I’m sorry—are you Modig or Dalstrom?”

  “I’m Dalstrom,” said the first and, pointing to his fellow, added, “he’s Modig. Along with your brother, we’re the four soldiers Colonel Raske brought back with him from the border. Everyone else here is castle guard. Where is Lang, anyway?” he suddenly asked.

  Lind’s eyes slid toward Inge as he said, “Colonel ordered him home to take care of his family for a couple days—he has a whole pack of younger siblings, remember?”

  A heavy frown settled on Dalstrom’s face. “I thought he had a sister that took care of…” His voice trailed off, and his widening eyes fixed on Inge. “Oh, no—!”

  “Less talking, more training,” Colonel Raske’s voice sternly interrupted, and the three soldiers jumped guiltily.

  “But Colonel!” said Dalstrom, and he leveled a horrified finger toward Inge. “The Prince is really a—”

  “There’s a punishment of execution if you complete that sentence the way I think you’re going to complete it, Dalstrom,” Raske said with seeming disinterest. “Keep your observations to yourself in this matter.
In the meantime, you might start the prince off with basic strokes—he needs to build up some strength if he ever wants to become truly proficient with a sword.”

  Inge’s mouth dropped in outrage, but Colonel Raske walked away before she could vocalize that emotion. She turned back to the three men and glared at them instead. From their expressions, she gathered that the unspoken revelation had taken both Modig and Dalstrom by surprise. Lind, though, was unfazed. Belatedly she recalled that he had been present in the throne room the previous morning.

  No wonder he had offered to go easy on her in the evaluation.

  Whatever the three soldiers felt about having to train with a girl, they suppressed it well. For the next hour, they took turns working with Inge, from basic strokes to sparring. She had been through similar exercises with her father and brother, but her practice had dwindled in the months since her father’s death. Before long, she felt like her arms were going to fall off. Just when she was certain she would drop from exhaustion, Colonel Raske interrupted the practice.

  “Your Highness, I think that is sufficient for your first day. I’ll escort you back to your room. Lind, you’re in command during my absence.”

  Inge trudged in the colonel’s wake, back to the castle, actually a little eager to see her prison of a bedroom again.

  Abruptly, Raske spoke. “You’re not a soldier, Your Highness. You are allowed to rest when you grow too weary.”

  Foolishness descended upon her. “I didn’t know. No one else was taking a break.”

  “They’ve all been training far longer than you have.” He stopped in his tracks and turned a curious frown upon her. “Or have they? How long have you practiced swordplay?”

  Inge did not like the calculation in those perceptive green eyes. “It was only ever a hobby,” she said evasively. “I was never supposed to need it.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know it didn’t.” She brushed past him and continued on, uncaring of whether he followed. She didn’t need an escort, she thought.

  Raske was by her side almost immediately, much to her annoyance.