I had not looked at it in a very long time, for I had seen terrible things in that emerald. But I thought that if Isabel could walk all the way to Brutanna to warn the prince of danger, then I could look upon my father’s ruined face, out of love. I had the strongest feeling that he wanted me to do it.
I took it over by the window and sat upon the floor there, where I could capture the light. And I gazed into the depths of that magical emerald and went on looking as a shape began to form in its green depths. And then, suddenly, there he was! But—how wonderful!—he was no longer a terrible corpse lying ravaged beneath the sea, but the dear, familiar father I had known in life. Such a thrill ran through me then! I drew a deep breath and felt my mind begin to clear.
And it was then, for the first time, that I understood. Father was not gone, as a flame is extinguished by the wind; he was in heaven with Our Lord, in a life beyond life, where he did not suffer and was at peace. And from that good place he looked down on me and sent me his love. Suddenly a great wave of relief washed over me, and my body softened as it does before sleep. I had forgotten how happiness felt!
It was at that moment that Marianne came into the room.
“Mother!” she screamed. Her voice was so loud, I wanted it to stop. “Oh, Alice, you monster! Mother, come here! Come and look at this!”
She had seen the ring.
Mother came running into the room. “Whatever is the matter, Marianne?”
“The ring!” she shrieked. “That emerald ring Father gave her. She has it! She had it all along! When we were so poor we had to walk all the way here, when we had not enough to eat—she kept an emerald ring and never told us. Oh, you horrid little beast!”
And she fell upon me and slapped me and tried to grab the ring. But I would not give it to her. Never, ever would I give it to her!
“Stop it!” Mother shouted. “Marianne, for God’s sake, get up! We have no need of it now. And if that ring means so much more to Alice than the welfare of her mother and her sister, then she is welcome to it—though it disappoints me terribly, Alice! I had thought better of you. And I have put up with a lot, you know, with your everlasting silence! Oh, I am disgusted with the both of you!”
Then she turned around and walked out.
“Selfish!” Marianne hissed. Then she left, too. I suppose she went back to court. She did not return to our room that night to sleep. Nor did Mother come, nor anyone.
The house began to grow dark. I heard the Vespers bell, followed by a door being closed and bolted; Cook had gone home for the night. Then all was quiet, except for the occasional sound of Isabel crying out and pounding on the storeroom door.
I continued to sit on the floor, listening to the night sounds—the barking of dogs, the howling of the wind, the splash of someone emptying a chamber pot out a window, then the slow, lonely peal of the Compline bell calling the monks to prayer. I waited yet awhile longer, just to be sure they had gone to bed, Mother and her awful husband. Then, at last, I rose up from where I had been sitting all that time, my legs so stiff I could scarcely stand, and hobbled out into the hall.
The shutters throughout the house were closed, and I had no light for my candle. But I could still hear Isabel, and so I followed the sound in the darkness, feeling my way along the wall with my hand until I touched the handle of the storeroom door.
I stood for a moment, listening to my stepsister as she wept and sniffled and sighed, just inches away from me, on the other side of the door. I wanted her to know that I was there, that I would help her if I could. But how was I to do that?
“Isabel?” I said. The sound of my own voice startled me—it was so weak and soft, a broken thing, nearly inaudible. I had forgotten you must draw breath, first, to make the sound come out.
“Alice?” Isabel said, clearly astonished. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I said, more firmly, now. “Yes!”
“Oh, Alice, you are speaking! I am so glad!”
I was glad, too, but could not think what to say about it. So I just rested my cheek against the door and smiled into the darkness.
“Alice,” Isabel said after a while, “Alice, please—will you let me out?”
“I was trying to think how to do it,” I said, my voice still thick and hoarse. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Mother keeps the keys. Would a hairpin work?”
“It might,” she said. “It’s worth a try.”
“All right,” I said, reaching up under my headdress and pulling out a pin. I did not know exactly what I was supposed to do with it, but I turned it about in the keyhole for some minutes, with no success.
“Perhaps I should try from the inside,” Isabel said. “Will you slide it under the door?”
I crouched down and guided it under. I felt Isabel take hold of it from the other side—and as she did, her fingers brushed gently against mine.
No one had touched me in a very long time—except for Marianne, who had slapped me. I had not allowed anyone to come near. And so now it was strange and sweet, that comfort of skin on skin. But Isabel’s touch was much more than that—it was like rubbing your hand across silk of a dry winter’s day: it made a spark that ran up my arm and into my chest and made me feel warm inside. I sat back in wonder as she struggled with the lock from inside.
“Oh!” she said after a while. “I think I have it!” Then I heard a soft click, and the handle moved and the door swung open.
Isabel knelt down, then, and took me in her arms. I had not felt so loved and protected in a very long time. It was like the old days, when I was a little child, and I would sit on Father’s lap. He would stroke my cheek, and kiss my hair, and sing me silly songs. I think it must be God’s will that we should hold and touch and comfort one another like that. Why else would it feel so good?
“Dear, sweet Alice,” Isabel whispered, “what a lovely voice you have! And isn’t it wonderful? We are both free now!” And it was true. I was free, released at last from a prison of sorrow that had held me as surely as a lock upon the door. I was changed all over now, a bright new Alice!
“You have done me such a service,” Isabel said. “And more than you can possibly know, for there is something important that I must do, and you have made it possible.”
“I heard. You are going to Brutanna to save your friend.”
“Yes, Alice, that is so. And all I need more is that you should bolt the door after I am gone.”
I did not really want her to go. I wished she could stay with me always and be my true sister. But I understood what she must do, and so I said, “All right.”
“They will not punish you for letting me out?” she asked.
“No,” I said, smiling. “For they will never dream I could have done it. You shall have all the blame.”
“Good,” Isabel said. “Now can you wait for just a moment more? There are a few things I must fetch from the kitchen before I go.”
She was gone only a little time; then I heard her creeping back along the hall. “I’m ready,” she said. “Come.”
We were at the door. Isabel unbolted it, then turned and kissed my forehead.
“How I wish I could take you with me, away from this place.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I have seen Father, and he is with God.”
“I never doubted it. He must have been a wonderful man—I have felt the pain of all of you missing him. Still, Alice, I do not think he would have wanted you to grieve for him so.”
“I know. He told me that tonight.”
“I’m glad,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “Be well, sweet Alice.” And she was out the door.
“Wait!” I whispered. “Take this.”
Isabel came back. “What is it?”
“A ring,” I said. “My father gave it to me so that I might see him in the emerald when he was away.”
“Emerald! Oh, no, Alice, you must not give me such a precious thing!”
“But it is a magical ring. You can see things in it,” I said.
“Just hold it to the light. I saw my father there this very night. It might be of help to you.”
“But if you can see your father in it, you must keep it as your greatest treasure!”
“No, Isabel,” I said. “For it has already showed me all I need to know. I want you to have it.”
I put it in her hand and closed the door quickly; then I barred it, and returned to my room. I slept easy that night and did not dream at all.
Bella
I met a tinker on the road, a kind-faced man with straw-colored hair. I suppose thieves and brigands may also have pleasant looks—still, I trusted him.
It was early morning. I had left the King’s City but a short time before and was still unsure of my disguise, though Auntie swore she would never have known I was a girl, dressed as I was. My garments were those of her odd-jobs boy who slept in one of the outbuildings and cleaned the fireplaces and brought in wood and ran errands and such. We woke him in the dark of night to ask for his clothes. And though he was astonished by our strange request, he gave them up gladly in exchange for the money to buy new ones. To this outfit I added my old black cap to cover my hair, for I was loath to cut it.
Now I wondered whether my disguise would truly deceive a stranger, and so I plucked up my courage and approached the tinker. He had all manner of tools and implements hanging from his saddle, and they clanked and rattled as he rode along. The racket troubled Auntie’s little mare; she did not like to come too near such a loud and puzzling creature, and executed a dainty sideways dance of avoidance. But I stroked her neck and assured her all was well, and so she complied, though she shot the tinker’s horse a terrified look from time to time.
“Can you tell me the way to Brutanna?” I asked. He nodded; he traveled the north roads often, stopping at villages along the way to ply his trade, mending whatever pots and cauldrons and suchlike vessels as needed repair.
“What business have you in Brutanna, lad?”
I made a creditable boy, then! This greatly eased my mind, for Auntie had said it would be most dangerous for me to cross the country dressed as a girl—“And you almost full grown,” she said. “Why, you’re practically a woman now!”
This was true. I was no longer the gawky little twig of a girl I had been when last she saw me. More than three years had passed since the momentous afternoon that had marked the end of one life and the beginning of another. I had not understood, then, what a great change it would be for me. All I could think of was meeting my father for the first time, and what he would say to me, and how it would feel to live there and be a lady. I was all atremble with excitement and fear over it, knowing neither what to expect nor how to behave.
And then we arrived at that great, cold house, and I was greeted with such curt formality and unwelcoming stares that you would think they had been expecting a princess and gotten a toad instead. Only moments later Auntie left; she had not been invited in, and it was plain that they wished her to go. As she was saying her farewells, she became so tearful and overwrought, I half wondered if she had some secret knowledge of impending tragedy. It was most unsettling.
Her manner seemed all out of proportion to the occasion. Father was disgusted by it and told her sharply to stop making such a scene. Even I was perplexed. I did not like to say good-bye to her, of course; we had grown very fond of each other on our journey together. But I thought we were only parting for a day or two. After all, we lived in the same city now; she could visit me anytime she liked. And so I could not fathom why she wept so.
I understood it later, of course. Auntie was already well acquainted with my father’s character—though she had counted upon his new wife to provide a gentle presence in the house. But a few minutes in my stepmother’s company robbed Auntie of even that small hope. She saw clearly, then, what lay ahead for me, and it broke her heart. Moreover, she knew that, whatever I must face, I would have to face it alone, for she would not be allowed to come there to visit me, to give me comfort and ease my way. We were parting for a long time, perhaps forever—and that was why she was so sad.
It was also the reason she insisted, when first we entered the King’s City, that we stop first at her house, before going on to Father’s. I remember wishing we could do it some other time, as we had already ridden a long way, and I was tired and anxious to get where we were going. But Auntie wanted me to spend a little time with my old grandfather.
He had for many years been troubled in his mind—from old age and grief, Auntie said. All the same, he seemed delighted to learn that he had a granddaughter. He beamed with pleasure when I kissed his hand, and said how pretty I was, so like my mother. But then, after a while, he began to grow agitated and confused, calling me Catherine and scolding me crossly for staying away so long.
Auntie thought perhaps we ought to go. She tucked in Grandfather’s blankets, which were in disarray, and kissed him on the forehead, and told him—as though he were a beloved child—that he must be very good while she was gone, that she would be back soon, and that Maddy the housemaid would be there at his side if he needed anything. Then we left.
Later, looking back on that little visit, I realized that Auntie had had another motive for arranging it, besides introducing me to Grandfather. She wanted me to see where she dwelt, so that if I should ever need her help, I would know where to go. And indeed, that is exactly what I did that night, after Alice rescued me from the storeroom: I went straight to Auntie’s house.
Of course I was somewhat afraid she might try to stop me, that she would think my mission too reckless and dangerous for a young girl to undertake. At the very least I expected she would want to go with me. But she did neither of those things. She said straight out that she was not strong enough for such a journey, that she would only be a hindrance to me. Besides, she said, Grandfather was not well, and she could not leave him. But she was convinced that my quest was a righteous one, worth even the risk to my life, and so she promised to do whatever she could to help me.
We had had precious little time to work out a plan and gather the things I would need, for it was already late when I arrived, and I would have to be away by first light, before Stepmother awoke and discovered I was gone. And as there had been so much to do, I had not slept at all that night, not even for an hour. Now exhaustion was beginning to tell on me. But I was well prepared as to what I ought to say to any folk I might meet upon the road. And so, tired though I was, I answered the tinker easily.
“I am a messenger, sent by my mistress to her sister,” I said.
“Have you papers to that effect? For if not, lad, you may be thought to have run from your master, and be taken into custody.”
“I have papers,” I said. (And I did, too, for Auntie had thought of that and had written some out for me.)
“That is good,” he answered. “You will need them when you cross the border as well. It is not often that folk in Moranmoor send messages to Brutanna—truce or no truce. It is odd and might be thought suspicious.”
“I am sent to summon her sister home,” I said, “for their mother is dying.”
“I see. And the sister dwells in Brutanna?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “She is with the queen’s household and lives at the palace. But she has gone to Brutanna to prepare the way for the king and queen, who will soon visit there.”
“Is that so? For what occasion?”
“A royal wedding.”
“Ah,” he said, and seemed satisfied. Then after a while, “Have you a good memory, lad?”
“Good enough,” I said.
“Then I will tell you the roads you must follow, and where to stay the night that they will not cheat you—for I know the region well. Once you cross the border, though, I can be of no help to you, for I have never been there and have only heard ill of the people, that they are coarse and stupid and live like pigs.”
“I have heard that, too,” I said. “That they dine on fish guts and such.”
He laughed. “Like enough they do,”
he said.
His good guidance saved me time and money, and may well have prevented some mishap that would have delayed me further. Auntie would probably say that God sent that tinker to speed my way—and perhaps she would be right, for I did believe my mission to be a holy one. I hoped at least to save a life, perhaps to stop a war. God could not but smile upon that.
In good time I arrived at the wide river that divides our two countries. To get to the other side I would have to take a ferry, there being no bridge or shallow crossing in that place. The ferry was little more than a raft of logs hauled back and forth by a system of stout ropes fastened to trees on either side. I boarded it with great reluctance; only pride prevented me from crying out when I felt the surface beneath my feet begin to move. My horse was likewise most agitated, and stomped about and snorted and rolled her eyes. I did my best to hold her still and calm her, lest she should cause us to tip over.
The boatman was surly and odd, with such a great tangled beard that it would have made a fine nest for a family of mice. He had one eye that looked at you and another that looked elsewhere. Indeed, I liked him not, for he put me in mind of Charon, from the old story—the one who ferried dead souls across the River Styx. Once this image had entered my thoughts, it would not leave me, and I began to wonder if the far shore would be like the country of the damned and its inhabitants the walking dead.
Dreadful as that prospect was, the river frightened me still more—so wide and deep it was, with such a mighty current. As we slowly made our way across, the boatman heaving and grunting as he worked the ropes, the force of the water pressed relentlessly against the rim of the raft, as if it wished to break us loose from our tether and send us hurtling down the stream. No wonder I was plagued by grim imaginings—I could not help it!
As if in a waking dream, I saw our crude little vessel capsize; I saw the boatman save himself by clinging fast to one of the ropes; I saw my horse, pumping her legs frantically in an effort to stay afloat, whinnying in terror as she was swept away by the power of the water; and I saw myself, too, swallowed up by the river, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness, struggling to breathe, and finally dying there—my cap floating off and my hair fanning out around my cold, white face.
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