"Of course you have to," the judge bristled at the suggestion. "Don't you have any damn respect? Come now, boy, off with it."
So there was no choice, but he reasoned with himself that it had to happen eventually. Might as well get it over with. Hesitating, drawing out the moment, Squeak slowly removed his helm. The bright sun stung his eyes, blinding him momentarily, made worse by the sweat dripping from his brow. He shook more sweat from his damp hair and stared worriedly in the general direction of the royal box. The announcer lifted his arm.
"Presenting our newest champion!" the man bellowed, loud enough for all to hear, so of course it was too loud in Squeak's ear. "Sir Uther Lawrence Pipsqueak of… er…" Quick as could be, he turned his head to the side and whispered, "Where from?"
"From here," Squeak croaked, his voice deeper than it had ever been, caught in his throat. He coughed, clearing the airway, regaining his namesake squeak. "I'm from here."
The man looked skeptical, but he did his job anyway, shrugging for a fraction of a second before turning back toward the king. "Sir Uther Lawrence Pipsqueak of Severille!"
A shadow of concern seemed to fall over the king's face, visible even from where Squeak stood with the sun in his eyes. Lucy bit her lip, eying their father carefully. Did he know? Could he tell? What would happen next?
The crowd died down, its roar and the occasional whisper seeming to linger in the air even after they stopped, and King Roland opened his arms as he spoke. "Well done, Sir Uther!" His voice boomed easily without effort. "You have fought well on this day of great challenges, for the honor of your land and the admiration of the princess. The guards will escort you to the castle for a more intimate audience with myself and my daughter. As for the rest of you, we shall see you again tonight at the Great Ball to conclude these wonderful festivities. Thank you all for coming."
Once the king turned, the crowd dispersed as well. Lucy lingered, looking down at Squeak meaningfully, but he didn't know exactly what that meaning was. He supposed he would find out soon enough, as the announcer took his arm and gently tried to guide him away.
"Come now," he said. "It's now time for the real challenge."
In any other circumstances, Squeak might have laughed. He assumed the man meant it jokingly, because how could he realize how true his words rang in Squeak's aching heart? Outside the arena, his horse waited for him, and he climbed aboard to be swept up in a parade that would lead him through a sea of cheering spectators. Though he felt slightly dazed by the swiftness of the proceeding, he tried to find Nigel among the faces. He was unsuccessful. Would Nigel even be there? Those he had competed with in the arena were loaded onto a wagon to join the parade, but he saw the faces of a few knights who didn't make it out there. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised not to see him, but it still made his heart sink like a rock.
They eventually reached the castle, filling Squeak with even more odd thoughts about his childhood, strange memories flooding back to him. In the grand scheme of things, five years was barely a tiny sliver on the great timeline of the world, but to a single life, it could feel like forever. As he was lead about the halls to get cleaned up and presentable and given a bit of food, he marveled at how much the place remained the same, while taking fascinated stock of what had changed. The portrait in the main entrance hall used to be a family one, done when he and Lucy were small, their mother still alive, a happy quartet filled with light and promise. Now, only a portrait of King Roland hung there, his largeness filling the space with stern power. But he did find the family portrait in the room where he awaited his audience with king, flanked by individual pictures of himself and Lucy when they were twelve, just a few years before he left. Who was that gawking string bean of a girl with wild red curls and beautiful, piercing green eyes? A ghost person who didn't exist anymore, who never really existed in the first place. He barely even recognized her as himself anymore.
But it was still there. He had not been forgotten. He knew from asking around a little that no one really talked much about the disappearing princess; it was a topic simply not discussed and no one's business. But he was still there.
When a servant arrived to escort him into the private audience chamber, Squeak was still staring at the portrait. A moment of confusion seemed to pass over the servant's face as he surely realized the resemblance, but he was hardly in a place to comment. "The king and the princess await your presence, sir," he said, bowing slightly and gesturing to the door. "And congratulations. It was well won, sir."
"Thank you," Squeak bobbed his head, adjusting the fine clothes he'd been given while he suppressed a strange anger at the words. Well won. Lucy was still considered a prize that he was lucky to have gained, but not anymore. Not after this. He pushed aside his worries about his past for a moment as he walked through the door, focusing instead on Lucy's liberation.
Even this room seemed trapped in time, with all the same furnishing and decorations Squeak remembered from all the boring hours spent here while his parents took tea or played card games with various foreign dignitaries and friends. The nostalgia wasn't going to linger, though, when confronted with King Roland sitting there in the red velvet sofa, dwarfing Lucy sitting there beside him. If her eyes got any wider, they would probably pop out of her skull, and her back was straight enough to support a roof. Meanwhile, Roland narrowed his eyes the moment Squeak walked in, Squeak who just stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say.
Perhaps he should apologize. Perhaps he should thank them for this opportunity. He thought to drop down to one knee and drop his head in genuflection, but before he had a chance to do any of those things, Roland stood up. Lucy's back somehow managed to stiffen even more, a silent gasp escaping her. Squeak wanted to lick his lips as the king lumbered closer, but he didn't dare. He could smell mead and eggs on Roland's breath as he leaned in for a closer look.
"It is you," he murmured, shaking his head as he thankfully pulled back. "I could hardly allow myself to believe it, but, by the gods, it is you, isn't it, Ursula?"
Squeak wished he was still wearing his armor; it would make less of a mess if his heart burst like he felt it would. He cleared his throat, but his voice still cracked as he opened his mouth and forced the words he wasn't sure he could speak out.
"It's Uther now," he said. "Well, people still call me Squeak, but it's Uther now, Father."
Roland shook his head, and Squeak braced himself for the storm, the rage of anger bursting from the looming man so different from himself. Ready to be banished from the kingdom again, adding insult to injury by spitting in the face of their time-honored tradition.
The storm didn't come, though. Roland's arms did, wrapping around Squeak so tightly he thought his ribs would crack, lifted off the floor with the force of the unexpected hug. "I didn't dare believe," Roland said, and Squeak realized his shirt was getting damp with tears. "I had hoped, but I didn't dare. You're alive. You're safe. You've come back."
Squeak didn't know what to say. "Father…"
"Five years," Roland said, finally setting Squeak on his feet and wiping away his tears. "That's an awful long time to regret how I treated you, an awful long time to worry about what might be happening to you out there. But you've come back, and look at you. My daught—" He caught himself, clearing his throat. "My son bested dozens of contenders to win the Tournament! And what a fine show, too! I've never been more proud."
Squeak let out a small, nervous laugh; just as his father had apparently not dared to believe it might be him, he didn't want to believe that this was happening, just in case it all seemed to be a ruse. "I had to," he said. "I wanted to do it for Lucy. You should let her choose who she marries, Father. I wanted to make it easier for her to choose than it was for me. I know I won her hand, but I relinquish my prize and I award it to her. Her hand is her own."
"Oh, Squeak." It left Lucy breathlessly, paired with a small laugh of her own. Roland just shook his head again, embraced Squeak again, and Lucy bounced to her feet to t
hrow her arms around the both of them to the best of her ability, and everything in the world felt, for a brief moment, like everything would work out. Everything felt the way they should be.
Well, almost everything. At first, the hug was a pleasant surprise, but when it went a little longer, Squeak started to squirm a little in discomfort. One moment of apology wasn't enough to dispel the months of torment five years ago, though he had to admit it was a good start. "Listen," he said, once he managed to free himself, "I know we have a lot to talk about. I know a lot has changed, and this just throws everything even further off balance. But hear me out, Father, please, and I have a feeling we can work something out. Before we do anything, I need to find someone. Let me work something out, and then we can get back to business."
*~*~*
They couldn't locate Nigel until the Great Ball at the end of the evening, but Squeak was just grateful they had found him at all. He could have left and Squeak would have tracked him down to his home in Beal, a romantic adventure he wouldn't have minded pursuing, but he much preferred it this way. He seemed dazed when the guards brought him forth, confused and hurt and maybe a little bit upset, but Squeak could only grin stupidly at him. He looked so handsome in his fine clothes, a sash of his city's colors across his chest, speckled with gems and medals. He kept his eyes down as he muttered out a standard greeting. "Your Majesty. Your Highness. Squeak… er, Sir Uther, congratulations on your win. I always knew you would do well."
"I couldn't have done it without you, you know," Squeak said.
He shrugged his shoulders just slightly, not wanting to argue with this new celebrated gentry. "I'm sure you and the princess will be very happy together."
"Oh," Squeak said, "I'm sure we could be, but, well, I decided I don't want her. Not like that. I have so much to tell you, Nigel, but we'll have plenty of time for that later. In the meantime, I have just one question for you."
Nigel finally looked up, his dark eyes filled with hopeful confusion. He even chanced a faint, nervous smile, making Squeak's heart all but burst. "Yes, Squeak?"
"May I have this dance?"
And Nigel answered with a laugh, holding out his hand.
My Brave Knight
DANIELA JEFFRIES
"Lord Dustin sends his regards, my Lady."
I sighed. "Does he?"
Charlotte ran the spiny bristle brush through my thick hair, combing out the tangles and knots. We were preparing for bed, the heavy velvet curtains closed and darkness touching every corner of the room. A fire roared in the hearth, and a small metal box rested at my feet, filled to the brim with rocks warmed in the flames; a similar device heated the bed, and I toyed idly with the long handle of it as she began to work my dense, waist-length curls into braids for the night.
"Indeed."
My Lady-in-Waiting pulled a heavy vellum envelope from the breast of her dressing gown. The Dustin crest was embossed on the front, and I could see that a heart had been etched into the thick red wax seal across the back. I waved my hand. "Burn it."
"Perhaps you should at least read it? People are becoming concerned." Charlotte worried at the envelope, dog-earing the corners. I rolled my eyes and grabbed it from her, tossing it into the fire myself.
"Of course they are. 'Poor Miryam,' they say. 'The sole child of Hani and Amina Alcalá, and a girl child, to boot! Her thirtieth birthday will mark her a spinster unless she marries. Thank goodness she was baptized, at least, and not raised a heathen.' If only a man were as interested in my words as he is my fortune." In irritation, I snapped shut the book I had in my lap, watching as a light cloud of dust rose from the reddish-brown spine. The smell of burning parchment filled the room.
"Gentle with that one, my Lady. Do not forget that we borrowed it from the archives. Not that you need any more books." She tugged on my hair teasingly.
"The library is indeed filled to the brim. We shall donate some to the orphanage." Tempered, I leaned my head back into Charlotte's deft fingers. "This one was rather interesting, though. A collection of accounts of life within a monastery."
"Thrilling," Charlotte said drily.
"It was!" I insisted. "Perfect reading before bed."
"I'm sure it was." She fell silent for a moment, and I could hear her chewing on her bottom lip as she braided my hair. It was a nervous habit she indulged in whenever she was keeping something from me.
"Out with it, then!" I said. "Before you split that lip. I can hear you gnawing on it."
"Well… the letter you just burned… I feel obliged to inform you that, whilst giving it to me, Dustin's errand boy revealed that many believe Dustin to be a good choice for reasons… not related to your fortune." Charlotte spoke the words carefully.
My entire body went still. "Do you mean because I am a Moor, and he is not?"
"Precisely, my Lady. His parents believe that your family's wealth paired with his family's connections and status as one of the oldest in England would be a perfect match."
"I see. And what do you think?"
"May I be frank?"
"Always, Charlotte."
"Lord Charles Dustin is a nice enough boy, if a bit feeble-minded. But his parents aren't fit to clean the stables here. The things they say about us Moors! They would only go along with the marriage to get their hands on the business and then promptly get rid of you. Your parents, God rest their souls, would never approve."
"And what of my impending spinsterdom?"
"We'll be two spinsters, then." With a pat, she wound my braids up and around my head, securing them with pins. Her own locks were already done for the evening, candlelight dancing amongst the fiery braids; although her mother was a Moor, giving her golden-brown skin, she'd inherited red hair and freckles from her Scottish father.
"Let's get you settled into bed." She fastened the buttons up the back of my nightgown, and then pushed the bed warmer down as she turned back the sheets.
"You're ten years younger than me, Charlotte," I said. "Only 19 years of age. And you are already turning away gentleman callers. You can leave at any time: you know, go off and see the world. Mayhap even have a family of your own. My parents made sure that you would be taken care of."
"With all due respect, my Lady, I've been with you since I was a babe. And I've seen many complain of the pain of the marriage bed and childbirth." She shuddered. "Men disgust me. Even if you do decide to marry, I don't believe I ever will." Charlotte patted the sheets. "Enough of that talk. Get in. The jousting tournament starts on the morrow. You need a good night's sleep."
"I completely forgot about the tournament." I smacked my forehead. "Lord Dustin will be on me like the plague."
"We'll avoid him. Now go to sleep." Before she put out the fire, the last thing I saw was Charlotte tossing a handful of sand on the remains of the envelope in the hearth. She prodded it with a fire poker and it promptly disintegrated into nothing more than a pile of ash.
*~*~*
It was sweltering.
Although we sat in the shade of the tent rigged over the arena, I could feel the sweat dripping down my back beneath the bodice of my gown. Charlotte had sewn the rich satin in such a magnificent fashion that the deep red color, shot through with glimmering golden threads, appeared to shimmer in the late afternoon sun. I could afford the finest dressmakers in all of England, but none topped what Charlotte could do with a needle and thread. She also excelled at metalwork: my head felt heavy, and I wasn't sure if it was from the intricate crown of braids that Charlotte had woven my hair into that morning, or the golden headpiece she'd crafted herself then placed on top.
"I'm much too warm," I murmured to her, wriggling in my seat. "Perhaps we should go." More than one knight had already been carried off the field, having fallen prey to the heat, and I hoped Charlotte or myself wouldn't be next. She wore a beautiful gold and blue silk brocade dress, also of her own creation, and she fluttered her face with an enormous blue fan made of matching peacock feathers.
"I was hoping you
would want to leave. My arm and head grow weary." The tiniest smirk crossed her face. "And is it not off-putting, how every eligible bachelor ogles you like a fish dangling on the end of a hook?"
"Hush!" I stood, smoothing the creases from my dress. "Let us go."
"My Lady!" A deep voice boomed out from beneath me. "You stand in my presence? How gracious."
"Oh, no."
Lord Charles Dustin rode up on his signature horse, a pure white, warmblood charger. The horse chafed and snorted, chomping at the bit, and his groom rubbed its mane, speaking to him in a soothing tone.
"It would appear your horse does not want to participate," I said wryly. "Perhaps it is too hot for him."
"Perhaps he is made nervous in the presence of a beauty as dark as a midnight storm. I am eternally surprised at the loveliness of such a dark-skinned Blackamoor woman. I never thought it possible in your kind."
I felt Charlotte's hand tighten on my waist. Grasping it tightly, I fought to maintain my composure as a wave of anger swelled through me.
"How gracious. And the horse is as white as your skin, my Lord. Best not keep him in the sun too long."
He flushed at my words, a pale pink tint traveling from his neck all the way to his forehead, and his watery blue eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to process if what I'd said was meant to be an insult or compliment.
He went with compliment. "Thank you, my Lady." I nodded in response, and then gripped Charlotte by the elbow. We began to inch our way out of the narrow row of seats.
"Is there anyone here that would compete with me for this fair maiden's hand?" Dustin cried boastfully. He pushed a thick curtain of shiny black hair off of his forehead as he spoke, dabbing at the sweat on his brow with a kerchief.
"My Lord, we were in fact leaving—"
"I will accept your challenge."
A knight rode out into the field, wearing full armor made of a coppery iron that shone in the sun like flames. There was a mere slit in his helmet, betraying nothing of his facial features, and gilded metal gloves shielded his hands. His horse was huge, a longneck stallion with a glossy coat of deepest black.
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