by Ruth Nickle
Tatterhood berated her parents for letting Ingridr open the door, then decided to rescue her sister’s head. She sat on her goat and led her troll-headed sister into the forest. After a week, they boarded a ship and sailed through the icy seas all the way to the trolls’ castle. When they arrived, she whacked the trolls with her wooden spoon until they gave back Ingridr’s head. Tatterhood used a bit of magic to put the head back on Ingridr’s body and sailed away with her on the ship before the trolls could change their minds.
Throughout their journey, Ingridr stayed below deck, recovering from her ordeal with the trolls. Whenever she got the chance, Tatterhood rode her goat back and forth along the deck, waving her wooden spoon. She was thus engaged as they passed near another kingdom.
“Is it only you on that ship?” asked the sailors of that kingdom.
“Only me and my sister,” replied Tatterhood.
“Can we see her?” they asked.
Tatterhood went below deck, spoke to her sister, and returned. “She won’t come out unless the king himself comes to see her.”
Well, the king of that land was a widower. He heard of the princess in the ship and decided he must see her. When Ingridr met the king, she fell very much in love, and he fell in love with her. The king asked for her hand in marriage, but Ingridr insisted that as she was the younger sister, she would not wed until Tatterhood did.
The king had two sons. The first was already married, but the second was not, and the king thought it a perfect match. The prince did not want to marry Tatterhood, but finally his father convinced him, for the good of the kingdom and the sake of the king’s own happiness.
An extravagant double wedding was planned. The king and Ingridr sat in a grand carriage, leading the wedding procession through the city. Tatterhood and the prince followed after, she on her goat and he on his horse. By the prince’s expression, it looked as if he were riding to his own funeral, rather than to his wedding.
As they rode, Tatterhood said, “Do you know why my goat is named Storm?”
“No.”
“So I can say that I always ride off on a storm.”
He didn’t laugh, or even smile.
“Why don’t you talk to me?”
The prince turned to her, then looked quickly away. “What should I talk about?” he asked.
Tatterhood thought for a moment, then said, “Ask me, why do you ride that ugly goat?”
“Why do you ride that ugly goat?” the prince asked.
“But I am riding a beautiful horse,” she said, and it was so.
The prince glanced at the horse, but when Tatterhood tried to engage him in conversation, he still would not.
After a few minutes, she said, “Ask me, why do you hold that ugly spoon?”
“Why do you hold that ugly spoon?” the prince asked.
“But I am holding a beautiful silver fan,” said Tatterhood, and it was so. But still the prince would not talk to her.
“Ask me, why do you wear that tattered hood?” she said.
“Why do you wear that tattered hood?” the prince asked.
“But I am wearing a silver crown,” said Tatterhood, and it was so. But still, the prince would not talk to her.
Tatterhood sighed. After a few minutes, she said, “Ask me, why are you so ugly and gray?”
“Why are you so ugly and gray?” the prince asked.
“But I am ten times more beautiful than my sister.”
At that, Tatterhood transformed and was truly more beautiful than Ingridr.
The prince fell instantly in love with Tatterhood, and they spoke all the way to their wedding feast. After their marriage they returned to Tatterhood’s kingdom, where they lived happily ever after.
End of excerpt
Chapter 2
At first, winning a prince’s hand in marriage had seemed a grand sort of prize to Tatterhood—after all, she had single-handedly defeated an entire band of trolls and saved her sister. Surely she deserved some sort of reward, and Ingridr convinced her a husband would bring her great happiness. But now, six months wed, Tatterhood wondered if she had made a wise decision. Yes, her parents had been thrilled when she returned with a husband who was also a prince, but Prince Trygve was still better at pleasing her parents than her.
Tatterhood rode her nanny goat, Storm, through the fields toward the practice grounds, where she thought she’d find Trygve. She had realized, that morning, that she was expecting a child—she should’ve noticed several weeks ago—and she wanted to tell him.
Trygve was engaged in a swordfight with one of her soldiers. He swung his double-edged sword with great finesse, expertly blocking the soldier’s blows and delivering his own.
Trygve was strong and intelligent—a real warrior. And he was a good man, kind to the people. These were all good traits for a husband who would someday rule by her side. The maids said he was a handsome man, but Tatterhood did not care much about that.
Her people liked him, and Tatterhood liked him for that. But he was always more comfortable with everyone else than with her (except for when she changed her appearance). The previous night they had argued about the new coverlet for their bed. Tatterhood insisted the color didn’t matter while Trygve protested that it did matter and the craftsman had not delivered what he had promised and should redo the work. They had said unkind things to each other, and though they both apologized, they had not spoken much to each other since. So now Tatterhood wanted to tell him about their baby—needed to tell him—but she did not know how exactly to start the conversation.
Trygve won his fight. A smile covered his face as he patted the soldier on the back.
“Who will challenge Trygve next?” asked the sword master.
Maybe if they fought in the training arena, it would make it easier to talk to each other. Tatterhood jumped off her goat and raised her wooden spoon. “I will!”
The people cheered, but Trygve’s smile disappeared.
“What is your weapon?”
Tatterhood raised her wooden spoon. It was a full arm in length—perfect for fighting against a sword. The bowl of the spoon was about the size of her head and worked well as a mace. The handle was not completely smooth; the front side was flat, to make it easier to hold. The end of the handle curved out, like the end of an axe handle, so that during a fight the spoon could not slide out of her grip.
“Tatterhood! Tatterhood! Tatterhood!” the people chanted.
“Let the match begin!” declared the sword master.
Tatterhood sprang into the attack, using both arms to swing her spoon toward her husband’s knee. He blocked and then moved to the offensive, swinging his sword first toward her chest, then toward her abdomen. His strokes came in rapid succession, but his motions had lost some of their normal fluidity.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tatterhood as she used the spoon handle to deflect one of Trygve’s jabs.
“Nothing,” the prince muttered. “You just look very gray today.”
Tatterhood wondered again if he was embarrassed by her appearance. Most people got used to it after a few weeks, yet it still seemed to bother Trygve.
She scowled and spread her hands about a foot apart on the middle of the spoon’s handle. She pushed her right hand forward, propelling the spoon head toward his arm (if it weren’t a training fight, she would’ve gone for his neck). He barely managed to block. She yanked her right arm back at the same time as she pushed her left hand forward, which pulled the spoon head back and sent the back of the handle toward his other arm. Once again, he barely blocked. He tried to attack, but she planted her feet firmly on the ground and pushed the spoon handle against his sword with all her strength. He stumbled backward.
She did not want to cause him any true damage—he was her husband—but she wasn’t going to play easy on him. That was not her way.
She
swung toward his knee again. He blocked, and she yanked the spoon back and drove it straight forward, hitting him in the ribs with the spoon head. The hit wasn’t hard enough to break any bones, but he would surely bruise.
“This is not a fair fight,” gasped the prince. “Your spoon is magic.”
“It’s not a magic spoon,” insisted Tatterhood. “Not exactly.” It’s not like she had placed a spell on it—there were a handful of ways she could consciously use magic, but for the most part, it did what it wanted. She could not yoke it to her will. (If she had better, more constant control, she could’ve become a witch, but it was too late for that now.) Yet on occasion, when she used things that resonated with her essence, they channeled a bit of the magic inside her. She couldn’t force it to happen, but at times she might fight better or travel faster or jump higher; once she’d even managed to sing a half-decent song while on her goat and holding her spoon, which was clearly magic helping things along.
“It’s made of wood,” said the prince. “If it were a normal spoon it would be damaged by my sword.” His sword had rags wrapped around it to make it less lethal, but even so, he was probably correct.
“Very well,” said Tatterhood. “I will fight you with a sword.”
She raised her hand to pause the fight and thought very hard of the sword in her bedroom. She willed her wooden spoon and her sword to switch places, and suddenly, her sword was in her hand instead of the spoon. Like Trygve’s, it was a stout, two-edged blade, though hers weighed less.
The sword master wrapped rags around the blade.
Tatterhood adjusted her grip on the sword. The metal handle felt cold, lifeless, while her spoon felt as alive as a tree.
Trygve swung his sword, so she parried him.
When it became clear that she would not be an ordinary princess, Tatterhood’s parents had encouraged her to take up sword fighting. In this endeavor, she gained proficiency but not expertise.
Perhaps the problem was the sword itself. It had a decorative hilt, fit for a princess, and a beautiful shine. It had been forged by the best sword maker in the land, and the sword master declared it perfect for either a parade or a fight. But it did not speak to Tatterhood’s essence, and so she much preferred her spoon.
Tatterhood was not as fast as her husband—at least not when she held a sword—and Trygve was very good at this. Though she tried her best, she barely blocked his attacks. She kept shifting her sword’s height, but she could not get in a good attack. Yet even if she weren’t as proficient at the sword, at least there was a light in Trygve’s eyes that she did not see most days, and she liked the way their bodies and their swords moved together. They should fight like this again.
Trygve swung and she moved to block, but it was a feint and now his sword was at her throat. The sword master declared the victor.
Tatterhood bit her lip. She had not wanted the fight to end so quickly, and she did not like to lose. She told herself she would have beaten him if she’d kept her wooden spoon. The soldiers patted the prince on the back.
“Walk with me back to the castle?” Trygve asked.
Tatterhood agreed and asked a servant to take her goat. The servant grimaced but nodded and proceeded to chase the goat. Storm was large, shaggy, and brown. And rather ferocious. She jumped onto a waist-high, wooden fence, bit off the servant’s hat, and ran into a field. This did not worry Tatterhood—Storm always came back.
Trygve took Tatterhood’s hand. He held it, raised, in the formal manner used to escort a noble woman. Their fingers did not intertwine as the villagers’ fingers did when they held each other’s hands, but surely it still counted as holding her hand, and in a public, outdoor setting. He must be pleased with her.
They walked through the field. Tatterhood was about to tell him she was expecting a child when a messenger approached. The lass curtsied and declared, “Letters for Princess Tatterhood and Prince Trygve!” Trygve’s letter was from his father, King Varg, and Tatterhood’s from Ingridr.
They read their letters as they walked. Ingridr was doing well and enjoying the sunny summer weather. She mentioned that King Varg was troubled. “There are reports of the return of a magical creature, but he won’t tell me any more details.”
Tatterhood looked at Trygve. His face was pale, and his eyes darted back and forth across his own letter.
“Anything wrong?” she asked when he finished reading.
“Of course not,” he snapped.
She did not press him or force an answer. She had already discovered that, in marriage, such tactics should be used only in times of great expediency.
They arrived at the castle, Trygve maintaining his stony silence.
“Bring me my horse,” he instructed a servant.
The servant returned with Sunset, the prince’s prize horse. She was a deep-black beauty with a silver mane. He rode her every day and would touch no other creature. He mounted her and rode to the fields without a word of farewell. Tatterhood entered the castle alone.
Trygve spent several hours with Sunset. When he returned, he was back to his normal self. Whatever troubled him must not be too great if it could be cured by a simple horse ride.
That night she had yet to tell him of their baby. Perhaps she needed to create the right moment. She changed out of her tattered clothes into softer, newer material.
Tatterhood turned to her husband. “Will you lie with me?”
He shrugged, as if to say he did not care either way. Sometimes it seemed he lay with her out of a sense of his duty as a husband, but she did not want that from him tonight. She wanted to please him, wanted to tell him about their baby when she was sure he’d be happy to hear the news.
She considered herself in the mirror, and, as always, found herself satisfied with her own appearance. Tatterhood liked her crooked, lumpy nose; liked the piercing of her eyes and her fierce, bushy eyebrows; liked that her left ear was higher than her right. Above all, she liked her gray skin. It allowed her to blend in with shadows.
She shifted her focus to her husband. There were several ways she could use magic. When she used items that expressed the essence of her soul, magic enhanced her actions. She could switch one object for another if she knew both objects well and knew their location. She could sometimes find a missing object if she had a strong connection to it.
She could also change her appearance for a time, though this was a bit trickier. She sent a wisp of magic toward Trygve, let it prod him, touch his desires. She turned the wisp on herself. She instantly transformed—skin smoother and clearer than her sister’s, dainty eyebrows, proportional features. Her hair was still curly but had a reddish tint to it, which surprised her. Normally it turned pale blond.
Tatterhood sat next to her husband on the bed, feeling less like herself.
“It always amazes me when you do that,” said Trygve.
Now it was Tatterhood’s turn to shrug.
“I wonder what the people would think if you transformed before them,” he said.
“I’ve done it before.” As a child, she’d transformed by accident during a festival. Once she recognized the ability and its implications she did it repeatedly until she mastered the skill. But then the novelty wore off for both her and her people. She thought of them cheering for her in the training grounds. “I’m not sure it’s necessary to do again.” She had told Trygve that she could only change her appearance occasionally because it used too much magic. That wasn’t strictly true—magic wasn’t like a vial of oil that could be used up—but she liked being herself. She already changed herself two or three times a week, and didn’t want him to press her to do it even more often.
“Of course it’s not necessary,” said Trygve. “But when you change, you look as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside.”
Tatterhood chuckled. “I don’t think I’m like this on the inside.” And then she opened up
to him, in a way that surprised her. “On the inside I’m muddy, always ready for a fight. I’m rough edges and frightening cliffs. I’m disheveled, and not always sure what I should do.”
Trygve put his arm around her. His hand wore the ring she had made for him as a late wedding present. “That sounds beautiful to me.”
Beauty didn’t matter to Tatterhood, but she liked his warmth so she leaned into him and kissed his neck. He kissed her on the lips, and soon they engaged in the same activity that led her to be with child. After, they held each other on the bed, and she knew this was the right moment to tell him the news.
But before she could, Trygve combed his fingers through her hair. “I like the red. Why did you add that?”
“I don’t choose what I’ll look like.”
“You don’t?”
“Well, I can choose, if I have something particular in mind. Sometimes I make myself look like a troll. And when I was young, I always made my face look like a frog to frighten Ingridr. Most of the time, though, I make myself appear like what someone else desires to see in me. You always want me beautiful, and so I become beautiful. Today you must like red hair.”
Trygve sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “How very strange.”
“It’s not strange at all,” said Tatterhood. “You probably saw someone with red hair and—” The realization hit her like the punch of a two-headed troll to the face. “The new serving girl has red hair. You think she’s beautiful.” At least only Tatterhood’s hair had changed to match Mette’s, and not her entire face.
“I, I—” stuttered Trygve. His face was flushed. “It’s not like that, Tatterhood. Yes, she has nice hair. But I’ve never looked at her in that way—I don’t desire her.”
“Then why is my hair red?” she said, tugging at it.
“Your hair isn’t red anymore.” He pulled on his nightclothes.