Reflect- Snow White Retold

by Demelza Carlton

  Xylander headed back into the woods. He would hunt, and then he would go to Guinevere with a heart from whatever he'd killed.

  And he wouldn't have to kill the princess after all.

  Twenty-Two

  Several days passed before Guinevere had a chance to peer into the magic mirror again, for even with her minimal magic, she recognised an enchantment when she saw one. She hung the looking glass on the wall, on a hook that sat at such a perfect height, it must have been made for it.

  She stared at her own reflection for a moment, relieved to see the shadows beneath her eyes had not darkened, even after days of presiding over hearings where Sir Dagonet or Sir Lancelot passed judgement while Melwas glowered at her. That was as close as he'd get to her. She'd barred the door again, and Lancelot stood outside it – unless Melwas could best the knight, which she highly doubted, she would be safe.

  "Show me my brother," she whispered to the mirror. The surface misted, before the forest reappeared.

  A flickering fire lit the scene, a tableau of butchery if ever she'd seen one. Xylander crouched beside the body of a deer, his arms elbow deep inside the carcass.

  "Yes!" he said suddenly, and freed his arms. In one hand, he held a gore-encrusted dagger, and blood streamed from the other, which held…what appeared to be the deer's heart.

  Guinevere's stomach churned. She was no stranger to the sight of blood and slaughter, for as castle chatelaine, she'd supervised the killing of the winter's meat stocks for many years now, but something about Xylander's kill reminded her of some ancient, pagan ritual, where the so-called priests sacrificed beasts to their myriad deities. She'd heard tell of some remote places in the deep northern forests where such beliefs were still upheld, but surely such things would have died out by now.

  She was willing to bet Princess Zurine would not be watching such slaughter. Guinevere scanned the clearing, but she did not see the princess.

  As the girl popped into her head, the image in the mirror blurred, moving too fast to see clearly, as it sped away from Xylander. Too far.

  A tiny cottage came into view – not the sort of place a princess belonged, unless she was visiting one of her father's poorer subjects with charity, as Guinevere herself had occasionally done. Maids who had once served in the castle, but were now widows, or new mothers, or that time one of the castle shepherds had broken his leg…

  But this cottage was built half into a hillside, hidden beneath some sort of creeping vine, and no smoke came from the chimney, despite the abundance of wood to feed a fire. A deserted place – surely the princess could not be inside!

  Guinevere became aware of a rumbling sound. It was a moment before she realised it came not from outside her door but from the mirror.

  A cart came into view, pulled by four men. As it slowed to a stop, three more men jumped out, and began to unload the cart. They passed the sacks hand to hand until they reached the cottage door, which the final man shouldered open.

  Guinevere held her breath. If the princess truly was inside, this did not bode well for her.

  As if on command, the mirror image moved to inside the dimly lit cottage.

  One man knelt to light a fire, while the rest moved the sacks to the loft.

  "Hey, who drank all the wine? The jug's empty!"

  The offending jug sat on the table, next to a single cup.

  "The cheese is gone, too."

  "Has anyone seen my winter cloak? 'Tis cold in here without the fire roaring."

  "Who's that in the bed, then?"

  The men crowded around the edge of the pallet on the floor, staring at someone sleeping facedown in the straw.

  Even dressed in peasants' clothing, Guinevere recognised the princess.

  "He's wearing my new wool tunic!"

  "And my spare one!"

  "That's my winter cloak!"

  "Aren't those the striped stockings you stole off that tinker at the fair?"

  "Only because it was dark. What man would wear such womanish stockings?"

  Silence swept through them for a moment.

  "There's a girl in our bed."

  "Who gets to have her first, then?"

  A brawl broke out, spilling outside as the tiny cottage could no longer contain the fighting men.

  Guinevere's heart stuck in her throat. She wanted to reach through the looking glass and pluck the princess from such peril, but she could do nothing but watch.

  One man, bigger than the others, broke away from the fighting to stand in the doorway, looking from the sleeping girl to his still brawling comrades.

  "I say we wait," he said.

  The fighting stopped.

  "Why?"

  "We only have a few weeks before snow starts to fall and block the passes back to town. Time enough to mine enough salt to see us through the winter, but only if we don't waste any time with whores."

  "I've never seen a whore like that. She must be one of those courty-sans. Rich men's mistresses. With skin white as snow like that…"

  "Never mind what she is. She's ours now. Our reward for when winter comes, and whoever mines the most twixt now and then gets her first."

  "What'll we do with her 'til then?"

  "Women's work. She can cook and clean for us, and when winter comes, she can warm our beds, as well."

  "What if she refuses? Courty-sans don't clean stuff. They're like ladies, I heard."

  "Then we take her to the local lord to be branded as a thief. Two tunics, a cloak and a jug of wine she's taken so far."

  "And the cheese!"

  "Men have been hanged for less. She won't refuse. Not if she wants to live."

  "But if she wants to take her chances with the local lord?"

  The big man laughed. "Then we don't wait. We each take her, and then take what's left to Lord Melwas. That lord isn't lenient to thieving whores." He gestured to one of the others. "Wake her up. Time to make her an offer."

  Guinevere watched in horror as one of the men shook Zurine awake.

  The girl let out a shrill scream and backed up against the wall.

  The big man made his offer – that they'd let her say with them, if she did the cooking and cleaning.

  Guinevere wanted to scream at the girl to run, to get away while she could, but the terrified princess merely nodded her acceptance.

  Guinevere cursed. Where was her brother?

  Twenty-Three

  When Xylander reached the city, he debated whether to visit an inn to make himself look respectable again before he visited the castle. But without even a change of clothes, he doubted he could do much. Besides, Guinevere would not care what state he was in, as long as he brought good news.

  He lingered in the inn long enough to buy a stoppered jug of wine to preserve the heart, before heading up to the castle.

  Guinevere sat in the throne room, alone on the dais, while a knight dispensed justice in the King's name. When his eyes met hers, she beckoned to the knight, who declared the day's audience at an end.

  Guinevere headed out of the throne room, and Xylander followed, all the way to the private apartments where she'd stayed before she married the King.

  "Where have you been?" she hissed, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Xylander bridled. "Why, doing your business, my queen." He sketched a mocking bow, then held out the stoppered wine jug. "As you commanded."

  She stared at the jug. "What would I want wine for? What of the princess?"

  Xylander uncorked the jug and drew out the dripping heart. The wine sheeting off it almost looked like blood. "Her heart, as promised."

  Guinevere's mouth dropped open in horror. "Don't lie to me. I saw you kill that deer. How could you leave the princess in the woods like that?"

  Xylander dropped the heart back in the jug. Wine splashed across his tunic, but he ignored it. "How could you know that?"

  "Show me the princess!" Guinevere hissed, pointing at a mirror on the wall.

  The mirror misted, swirled, then showed an as
tonishingly clear picture that was not a reflection of the room.

  "How…?" he began.

  Guinevere hushed him. "Listen and look!"

  He peered at the looking glass, and swore. Zurine sat on a rough stool beside a smoky fire, weeping into her hands. When she lifted her head, he saw the dark shadow of a bruise across half her face, as if someone had hit her. "The bread will be better tomorrow. I promise. Please don't hit me again," she whimpered.

  Fury rose up. Who had dared strike his princess?

  "Why in heaven's name did you leave her with those criminals, and bring me a heart, to make me think she was dead?" Guinevere demanded.

  Xylander stared. "You asked for her heart!"

  Guinevere stamped her foot. "You fool! I told you to win her heart. You know, make her fall in love with you, so she won't marry Lord Melwas, the King's slimy cousin!"

  Win her…? Why hadn't she said so?

  "But…"

  "You left her in a cottage with criminals! They're stealing salt from one of the King's mines, and selling it…and they mean to take her, too, treating her like a servant for now, but they have a wager…whoever can mine the most salt before the first snowfall will make her his whore!"

  Xylander's mouth dropped open, and he couldn't seem to close it. Words failed him.

  "Go and find her, you fool, and save her, before it's too late!"

  Xylander hurried off, staying in the city only long enough to procure fresh clothes and provisions and a new horse, before he returned to the clearing where he'd last seen Zurine. This time he would follow the hoofprints until he found what he'd missed the first time – signs of where Zurine had gone.

  He would not fail her this time.

  Twenty-Four

  By all that was holy, what had Xylander been thinking? That she wanted the girl dead? If she had, she'd have asked for the princess's head, not her heart. As if she'd ask for anyone's head. What sort of mad queen would demand such a thing?

  And that dripping heart…Guinevere shuddered. She might not be squeamish at the sight of blood, but when he'd pulled the organ out of that wine jug, red with wine or blood or a mixture of both…why, she'd challenge even the strongest man not to shrink away at such a sight. It would churn anyone's stomach.

  Except Xylander's, of course. They'd called him the Huntsman for a reason back home. When he'd splashed gore down his front from it, he'd barely blinked.

  She hoped he hadn't splashed any…Guinevere swore under her breath. There were two distinctive red splatters on her white skirt, and a scatter of droplets on her bodice, too. She would have to change gowns, or appear in court looking like a sloppy serving wench.

  Slipping out of her soiled gown was the easy part, but lacing up a new one was harder than she'd expected. She'd never needed a maid when they were laced along the front or the side, but this benighted bloody thing had to be laced up the back…

  She dropped the golden gown on the bed, then realised the stain had gone through to her under things. She needed a clean shift, too.

  She pulled the fresh linen out of its chest, just as the door slammed open.

  "I will see the traitorous whore, and you shall not stand in my way!" Melwas roared as he strode in.

  Guinevere clutched her shift to her chest, painfully aware of her nakedness as Melwas' greedy eyes took her in.

  "Whore!" Melwas repeated, pointing an accusing finger at her. "I saw your lover leaving. The guards will catch him, and wring a confession out of him, I have no doubt. As for you, you are no more a queen than the lowliest tavern whore. Spreading your legs for every common knight…" From the way his eyes lit up, he looked like he was fairly drooling over the thought.

  "Sir Lander is most certainly not my lover!" she said, drawing herself up. She longed to dress, to put layers of wool and linen and maybe even armour between her body and Melwas' leer, but she didn't dare move her shift and expose herself to him. Or Lancelot, who stood behind him with a thunderous expression on his face.

  "Take this lying, war-mongering whore to the dungeons!" Melwas ordered.

  "Whatever else she may be, she is the Queen, and our sovereign," Lancelot said steadily. "Her guilt is for the King to judge, not you or I."

  "Her lover flees the castle, while she stands here, naked as her name day, while the King lies dying in his own chamber! The King will not live to judge her – she'll make sure of that!" Melwas glared. "You saw the answer her father sent. The head of the King's own messenger, with his tongue cut out. King Artorius sent the man a messenger to inform him of their union, but all he received back was a declaration of war! That whore is responsible, I know it!"

  Guinevere's heart sank. Her father truly had gone mad, if he cared so little about offending his neighbours that he was willing to execute their messengers.

  Lancelot's eyes met hers, cold blue pools that would show her no mercy. "Your Majesty, Lord Melwas accuses you of grave crimes indeed. Until your innocence or guilt can be proven before the King or his duly appointed judge, I must ask you to remain in your chambers, and a guard will stand outside. If I do not do this, the King will never forgive me. Do you agree to remain in your chambers, my queen?"

  "She is a criminal, and she belongs in the dungeons!" Melwas raged.

  Lancelot's gaze never wavered. "Your answer, my queen?"

  She blew out a breath she'd barely been aware she was holding. "I will stay here. Until…my husband wakes." If by some miracle he woke… Tears formed, threatening to spill, but she held her head high. These men had seen enough. Neither of them would see her cry. "And my condolences for your messenger. If I'd had any idea my father would do such a thing…"

  She didn't want to believe it, but in her heart, she did. He truly had gone mad.

  Lancelot bowed low. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Now, we will see ourselves out." He seized Melwas' arm and dragged the protesting lord out of the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

  Guinevere sagged. She'd panicked so when they burst into her room, she hadn't thought to defend herself. She should have showed them her wine stained gown, explained that Lander was her brother…

  The son of a mad king who was now their enemy.

  No, she could not tell them about Lander at all, unless he returned with the princess.

  She dressed mechanically, and it wasn't until she was done that she realised she'd donned the plainest gown she'd brought from home. The soft, oft-washed linen was comforting, reminding her of happier times. But not comforting enough.

  She buried her head in her hands and wept.

  For two kingdoms at war, for a beloved father gone mad, for the life of a loyal servant lost, for a loving husband fallen before she could truly know him, for the princess in peril…and perhaps even a tear or two for herself, and the uncertainty her future held.

  Twenty-Five

  For the third time, Xylander returned to the clearing where he'd lit the fire for Zurine. Rain had erased her horse's tracks, along with any signs of her passage. He hated to admit it, but he'd lost her. How could he save her now?

  No matter how much he wanted to…

  Not even a hunting dog would help him now, for the same rain that had taken her footprints had surely washed away her scent, too.

  He would retrace the path her horse had taken on its own, then return to town, and ask Guinevere for her magic mirror. If it could show her the princess in some distant cottage, then surely it could show him the path the princess had taken to get there.

  He trudged along the muddy trail, wishing she'd left at least something for him to follow. Hadn't there been some ancient princess who'd given a hero a spool of thread to find his way out of a labyrinth?

  Wait…was that…a thread?

  Not the sort to lead him out of a labyrinth, for it was no longer than his finger, but what drew his attention was that it was white wool – spun wool, which could only have come from someone's clothing. Zurine had been wearing a gown of white wool beneath her black cloak – a snow white maiden, i
ndeed, the fairest he'd ever seen. And he would again, if he could but follow her trail, and find her.

  He plucked the thread from the bush that had caught it, and stuck it in his pocket. There was a game trail here, that widened considerably on the other side of the bush. Almost as if someone had hidden it deliberately. The rain had not washed away the signs of deep ruts made from heavily laden carts that had once passed through here.

  Guinevere's illegal miners, maybe?

  He hastened along the cart track, for that's what it had become, until he happened upon a lady's slipper. Once white, it was now so caked in mud he barely recognised it as Zurine's, but who else but a castle-bred princess would wear such a shoe out here?

  Five hundred yards further, he found the second shoe, half hidden under a thorn bush that held no less than three white threads, including one as long as his arm.

  She had passed this way, for certain. All he had to do was find her, and save her.

  A fitting quest for a noble knight. Maybe even a prince.

  Twenty-Six

  "I must interrogate the prisoner!"

  Every night Melwas appeared at the door of her chamber, and each night he uttered the same demand. But the guards would not allow him to enter, to Guinevere's endless relief.

  Until tonight.

  "Yes, Lord Regent, but you say she is a witch who has cast a spell over the King. What if she were to do the same to you?"

  "I am immune to magic! I have a charm that wards me against evil such as hers!"

  "Let me see that." There was a long pause, followed by, "You should send your guards to arrest whoever sold that to you, Lord Regent, for it is about as magical as my left arse-cheek."

  "Later, later. What matters is this traitor, and I must interrogate her now!"

  "Very well, Lord Regent."

  As the door swung open, Guinevere rose to stand before the mirror, hiding it from sight. She couldn't bear to see poor Zurine enslaved to those monsters, so she rarely looked at it, except to follow her brother's search, but she did not want Melwas to notice it and take it from her. Or Lancelot, who claimed to be able to sense magic.