by Joanne Dahme
jester
A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE we had left the farming village and each day seemed to cast a longer, darker shadow over our fate. I feared that I would never find an opportunity to flee the prince.
At first I hoped that we might have the chance to get lost in the throng of people who were traveling along the coastal road. During the first few days, we passed hundreds who had fled villages along the beaches—villages that the pestilence had suddenly struck. The survivors headed south, as did we, away from Bordeaux.
As the coastal road was narrow, our small army rode side by side in twos or threes.We journeyed as if we were initiating a small crusade. Passersby stepped off the road to allow us to pass—the expressions on their faces were either resentful or too world-weary to care. The soldiers, the horses, the clothes we wore and the trunks and other supplies we hauled, all reeked of our wealth. It felt blasphemous to me when we confronted faces disfigured by despair.
There were also those you expect to see on the highway—monks, nuns, pilgrims, beggars, and merchants—going about their business as if nothing else in the world mattered.We passed farmers who were herding their cows and sheep. Other families pulled their meager belongings in shared carts like mules. It was the families that left me feeling raw. What if we had left London when the last plague struck, as my mother had pleaded with my father? Would they still be alive? How simple and different our lives could have been.
During those first long days, I often felt as if I were being lulled into submission by the rigors of our journey. The prince insisted that we spent at least eight hours on our horses. Our only breaks were brief stops for eating the roasted rabbits and chickens acquired from the traveling merchants. At sundown we would stop to establish camp, for the prince was no longer interested in looking for an inn or a home that would host us as its guests. He was suddenly impatient to reach Castile. I assumed it was because he, too, feared the pestilence, but Sir Andrew mentioned another reason to me with a sour smile. “He doesn’t want to lose a second sister, princess.”
It was George who kept me focused during those long hours on the road. I feared that if we did not get away from the prince before we reached Castile, I might lose George forever. And despite the fate that awaited us at the end of our journey, I was cheered that George’s heart had not hardened. During one of our breaks—consisting of cheese and bread since the prince did not want to waste the time of cooking over a fire—I was surprised to see George sharing his scanty meal with two little beggar girls, who had been running alongside our horses since we passed their village.The girls’ dresses were tattered and dirty. They were shoeless and their hair was knotted. I guessed they might be all of six years old. George was dividing his bread and cheese among the three of them, patting the ground beside him to encourage them to sit. Suddenly, as I watched them, I panicked. Will George become just like them?
“Who are your little friends, George?”
The girls looked up, their eyes wide in their dirty faces.
“I don’t know their names, my lord Prince, as I don’t speak French,” he replied innocently. “But I know they are hungry,” he added. “Did you want to share some of your cheese?”
For a moment, the prince simply stared, baffled by the question. My own heart stood still. He then smiled at the two little girls as if they were an interesting diversion.
“Why not, my dear George? I speak French, but I needn’t waste my time asking them anything. I can see they are hungry.” The prince crouched beside the girls as if he might poke them. They leaned away from him, clutching each other’s arms. “This hard cheese does not particularly please my palate anyway,” the prince remarked as he stood again, apparently bored already with the terrorized girls. He motioned to one of his soldiers to gather his leftovers.
“Do you have your amulet, George?” he asked then, turning back to George as if it were a second thought.
“Right beneath my shirt, my lord Prince.” George smiled brightly, patting his chest at the spot the amulet pressed against his flesh.
“Good. Let your little friends touch it, to protect them on the road.”
George nodded and began pulling at the string around his neck.
I felt a cold chill grip me as I thought about my dream and looked at the two little sisters who we would be leaving behind to the prince’s army of rats. It is only a dream, I reminded myself.
By the time we marked our second week on the road, the horses had grown tired of the constant rise and fall of the rock-strewn paths, but the soldiers were patient with them, as everyone was hot and tired under the glare of the early October sun. I wore the same Plantagenet dress but no longer worried that it was dirty or stained from our journey. For with my dusty dress, I seemed to blend more naturally into the scenery. To be clean would have diminished the horrors we witnessed—horrors that the prince seemed to relish.
We passed many villages on the edge of abandonment or already deserted. It was easy to see that this plague was traveling down the coast. Homes stood like shells, the thatch of the roofs gone from the burnings and their wooden walls scorched. Black rats darted in and out of alleys, stopping to stare at us as we passed as if we were the intruders. All we saw were burning pyres on the beaches and more than one abandoned ship listing off the coastline. We heard the rumors that the mayor had burned all of Bordeaux, and even the castle was in flames. Suddenly the steady stream of people had stopped, and I felt as if our little army was alone in this part of the world. It was then I began to despair.
The prince barely left me alone or out of his sight, and when he did he was sure to assign a few soldiers “to guard me from harm.”
“It is dangerous in the woods, dear sister,” he said slyly as he pulled his black brute alongside my horse. He would point into the particularly thick coppice of trees and brush that periodically flared on the inland side of the road as he leaned toward me. “Do you know who lives in there, my dear? Robbers, thieves, beggars, all ready to prey upon a foreign princess.”
“I have not seen any of them,” I replied brusquely. Desperation slowly eroded my attempts to maintain a regal demeanor, but the prince seemed to take pleasure in my barely veiled fear.
He sat up straight on his horse, a delighted smile pulling at his features until he looked demonic. “The Spanish prince believes his betrothed to be a dove. How easily we men are fooled by beauty.”
I did not want to be the cause of his enjoyment. I turned away and stared longingly into the wet, dark woods. If only a band of thieves were desperate or crazy enough to attack us.
But it was not a band of thieves that stopped us in our tracks—a man dressed in a multicolored tunic with bells on his hood and sleeves approached us on a black horse, followed by two foreign soldiers.
“Saludos, my lord Majesty,” he pronounced as he bowed musically in his saddle, his bells tinkling high notes like laughter.
George let out a loud “Oh, my.” The stranger had a dark beard and bushy black eyebrows. His nose was almost as pointy as the Black Prince’s.
“My name is Gracias and I welcome you on behalf of Prince Pedro. I am to entertain you on the remainder of your journey. ?Es esta bueno?”
“Really,” the prince drawled, staring at the minstrel. He raised his hand to signal his army to be still. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, this time with a tone of amusement.
“Gracias!” the minstrel shouted, shaking his head so that his bells made one continuous peal. “G-R-A-C-I-A-S, thank you!” He threw his head back as I caught his darting glance.
The mayor’s note, I thought, but felt a stab of panic. Is this our savior? The minstrel of a foreign prince?
“How do I know that you are who you say you are?” the prince asked evenly, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword.
“I can recite for you a poem about your king or sing for you a song romántico,” the minstrel replied.The bells on his sleeve softly tinkled as he flicked the reins of his horse to get closer t
o the prince.The prince was smiling now as if he dared Gracias to come one step closer. Our soldiers had gathered around the prince, their own swords on the brink of being pulled from their scabbards. The two Spanish soldiers, their armor and hair covered in a layer of dirt from the road, scowled at our soldiers as they shook their heads warning them to stay back. I held my breath.
“I can present to you a sealed letter from the prince intended for the eyes of his beloved.” He said the word with a mocking sweetness.
Sir Andrew suddenly appeared, using his shoulders to press gently against a horse’s flank to open a path. “May I see the letter? I am the king’s ambassador, Sir Andrew Ullford,” he explained, holding out his hand expectantly. “I daresay that I will recognize the seal of Prince Pedro.”
Gracias stared at Andrew.The start of a smile tugged at his lips.They were opposites, I realized, as the two respected the momentary silence between them. Sir Andrew’s cloud of white hair and bulbous red face looked absurd against the dark sharpness of Gracias’s features.Yet, for a moment, I recognized a hint of affection in Gracias’s eyes.
“Of course. Perdóneme my tardiness.” Gracias bowed as he pulled a tied parchment from his tunic. “But the letter is meant for the pleasure of the princesa,” Gracias reminded Sir Andrew as he handed over the paper.
Sir Andrew untied the ribbon gently. “Of course. I am just checking the seal, sir.”
“You will give the letter to me,” the prince corrected. “As I am the princess’s protector.”
Sir Andrew had his back to the prince. He squinted at the broken blob of melted red wax. “Indeed. You are a member of Prince Pedro’s castle. How kind of the prince to send you ahead,” Sir Andrew said agreeably.
“Let me see that.” The prince extended his hand impatiently and snatched the parchment from Sir Andrew, barely able to hide his sneer. “Prince Pedro sounds like a man in love,” the prince finally noted, tucking the letter into the pocket of his own tunic.
I felt as if the roots of my hair were on fire. All of this talk about the prince’s love reminded me that we were destined to meet within a few days time. I knew that I could not allow that to happen—that once Prince Pedro spent any time with me—this ruse would be discovered. The time for our escape is now. I looked around for George and saw that he had climbed onto the horse he shared with Sir Andrew to get a better view. He seemed transfixed by the minstrel.
“Who wrote the English for him?” the prince asked, deadly serious.
“I had the honor, my lord,” Gracias replied quickly. “And may I say that Prince Pedro has boasted to all of the princesa’s beauty.”
Sir Andrew seemed to visibly exhale.
The prince almost smiled kindly at the minstrel. “Ah, yes. She is like an angel and her beauty can be blinding.” His gaze rested on my perspiring brow. “Unpack your horses, Gracias, and join us for the night. We must celebrate the near end of our journey.”
Gracias’s reply was the shrill peal of his bells as he jumped from his saddle. He cast a last fleeting glance my way before he guided his horse to the clearing, where a few of the soldiers were already preparing our supper’s fire.
That night, we sat around the popping kindling of the fire, privy to much entertainment and drink. Gracias and his soldiers were busy retrieving leather flagons full of Iberia’s finest madeiras from their horses’ saddles. It appeared that they had carried nothing else with them on their journey from Castile.
“A welcome feliz!” Gracias shouted, “from Príncipe Pedro to his new hermanos!” He raised a flask and then passed it around before he launched into his own entertainment. The Black Prince leaned languidly against a log, his eyes small and contemplative as he surveyed the scene around him. As our soldiers drank, Gracias juggled three red balls in the air and caught them as if each were a small orb of fire. George was thrilled by the show.The blaze cast a feverish light to his pale face.
Gracias seemed never to tire as he laid aside his balls to dance or to sing some silly songs. His gaze encompassed every soldier at our camp, mentally tallying how many soldiers began to stumble over their own feet as the evening lengthened. His slippery stare landed upon me numerous times, but whenever I looked up from my own log to check his impropriety, his attention was back to the prince, who continued to watch his show with veiled contempt.The prince did not stop himself from enjoying the wine nor from sneering at the foolishness of his own soldiers, whose faces were free of the fear of the pestilence for the moment. They leaned against their horses or one another and laughed, slapping their thighs or their fellows’ backs as if our journey through this stricken land were nothing but a dream.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, my lord?” Sir Andrew asked, looking stern as he eyed the Spanish soldiers.
The Black Prince gave him a sideways glance. “You worry too much, Andrew. I don’t know how my father suffers your presence without wanting to cut his own throat.” The prince lifted his chin arrogantly. “Everyone in this region is dead or dying of the pestilence. Who is left to attack us?”
Sir Andrew shrugged and turned away.
I tugged at George’s arm to make him sit down beside me. The raucous energy of our camp made me nervous and the feverish heat of the fire seemed all too infectious. Only Sir Andrew and Henry seemed unaffected by the spectacle before them as they stood with their arms crossed at the edge of the fire’s circle. The Spanish soldiers, dark like Gracias, were clapping and smiling but I noticed they kept their gaze trained on the prince at all times.
It was only after the soldiers grew too tired or too drunk to stand that Gracias finally ended his act and signaled to his soldiers that it was time to rest. George had fallen asleep a few songs past and his head rested against my arm. I shifted my weight against the log and guided him to my lap. I vowed to stay awake even as I closed my eyes and smelled the salt of the sea as it mixed with the sweet aroma of the fire.
“We must go!” someone hissed in my ear as a hand pressed against my mouth. I was startled but unable to cry out. I felt the terror in my throat as I struggled to clear away the cobwebs of sleep from my thoughts. What does the prince want?
It was dark, as the fire had burned itself out. I could not see anything at first and panicked for a moment that the prince had taken George, but I felt his weight against my stomach and heard his sleepy moan as I struggled.
“Stop it!” the voice commanded. “You’ll wake them up!” The accent was foreign, I realized, not certain that I should be relieved. I had been listening to this voice for most of the night. I grabbed at the hand that covered my mouth and finally was able to make out the minstrel’s dark eyes, suddenly stern beneath his bushy eyebrows. I thought of the mayor’s note as my hand trembled against his. Can I trust this man? What choice do I have?
I pulled his hand away and pointed to George’s sleeping form. “He comes with me.”
Gracias smiled in amusement. “Well, you certainly give orders like a princesa.” And just as quickly his smile vanished. “Wake him and do not make any noise. I do not know where the prince is.”
I shook George gently and held my own hand against his mouth as I whispered for him to be still. As my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, I could see the soldiers sprawled out in the clearing, some snoring loudly. Many of them had used their shields for beds. A few of the horses had loosened their tied reins and had drifted to the edge of the woods. They were content as they munched on the long grass. The minstrel was right—I did not see the prince. I wondered if he had wandered down to the beach to create his own burning pyres as I had seen him that night from my window in the castle.
I heard what could have been the hoot of an owl, but it was just Gracias by our horses, motioning for George and me to mount. The two Spanish soldiers tiptoed through the sleeping men, ensuring that all were asleep. I grabbed the sack of clothes that I tied to my horse’s saddle. It contained a few of the princess’s dresses and two clean tunics for George. I led George gently past the few glowing
embers that remained of the fire. He rubbed his eyes as if still dazed.
Suddenly Sir Andrew appeared from the woods and stood behind Gracias.
“?Son usted con nosotros? Are you coming, sir?” Gracias asked pleasantly, as if inviting Sir Andrew on a hunt.
“No.” Sir Andrew smiled. He looked positively happy. “But take Henry, he will help protect the princess.” Henry, dressed in his worn leather armor, stepped from the shadows but did not look at me. I felt myself blush and was thankful that it was dark.
“Tell the mayor thank you for me,” Sir Andrew said quietly as he shook the minstrel’s hand. “I need to wait for the prince.”
We galloped blindly in the darkness, thrashing our horses to spur them onto the rocky path that they had trod only hours ago. George clung to my waist. Henry was in front of me and in front of him the minstrel led. The two Spanish soldiers rode behind, yelling to each other, but I did not understand their foreign tongue.
After an hour of hard riding we stopped to allow our horses a short rest. Their mouths were flecked with froth and their bodies lathered in a damp sweat.
“That seemed too fácil, princesa,” Gracias said as we sat on our horses in the middle of the road. In the dim moonlight, I saw a fine sheen of sweat shining on Gracias’s face. “I do not trust your Black Prince,” he continued. “He has the eyes of an animal.”
Nor do I, I thought as my horse pawed skittishly at the ground. That is when we heard the squeaks—a hysterical chorus filled the air. The horses began to turn and buck as black rats—hundreds of them—swarmed around their legs.
“I’ll show them my amulet!” George shouted above our yells. He must have had it out for only a minute when Henry screamed at George to put it away. “You are making the rats wild!” Henry yelled.
Henry was right. The rats were now leaping to reach George’s hand, as if he held a fine morsel of food.