The door opened.
The raspy voice of Karl sounded again, an insult to the quiet morning. "You rang...again...Master Duncan." Karl had to be older than the kingdom itself, and while his slow speech often held long pauses, Duncan knew this had been exaggerated, his way of letting the prince know he didn't enjoy being woken up before the split of dawn.
Not like he could murmur. Duncan rarely asked him for anything, and could boast being the most self-sufficient royalty in at least three generations.
"Thank you for coming, Karl. Will you please prepare water for a bath and iron some fresh clothing?"
"If Master Duncan plans on leaving the castle unattended...again...I recommend a disguise. Would you like me to iron a dress?"
"Your humor is impeccable Karl, especially for so early in the morning. I congratulate you. Perhaps you're right. Forget the ironing, I'll wear my usual attire."
Duncan cringed at the thought, having never taken his peasant clothing to be laundered as intended, but rather stuffed the garments back in the box where he usually kept them.
"Quite, Master Duncan. I am always right." He turned to leave but before he'd gone too far, Duncan called, "Karl, where will Prince Henry be this morning?"
Karl deliberated momentarily. "Let's see, being the middle of the week, he will most likely be found on the grass outside bowling, or perhaps taking a stroll through one of the gardens." He'd averted eye contact during the whole act, looking all around him and above, but never directly at his master. Duncan withheld a response, not entirely sure of his meaning.
"He'll be in the council chambers within the hour, sire. He rarely leaves, except for an afternoon excursion to inspect the various sectors of the castle from time to time."
"I see," Duncan said. Karl had meant to insult him, to imply that had Duncan paid more attention or worked as he should, he would know exactly where to find his brother. He stood tall, not letting the sarcasm get to him. "Thank you, Karl."
Karl left and Duncan entered his wardrobe, pulling down the box where he kept his smelly peasant clothing. Perhaps he should have had Karl bring something ironed after all (despite his stinging remarks and maybe because of them) so at least he would look respectable when facing his brother. An old, familiar insecurity rushed through him. Duncan took a moment to finger through the garments hanging in his wardrobe—white shirts with sleeves that puffed out far too much for his taste and strapped around the waste to a single button on the back side, hosen and breeches, and leather shoes he never wore.
Duncan placed his hands on the back wall of the wardrobe and leaned forward, placing his head against the smooth, cold wood. How long he stood there, debating what direction his life should take (or would take if he kept on this way) he did not know.
Startled by the sound of Karl behind him announcing that a warm bath awaited, Duncan grabbed a clean shirt and an old pair of breeches he planned to tear near the shins. He would go barefoot. Even if he smelled fresh and wore clean clothes, he knew people really judged station in life by the shoes one wore. He could stand in confidence before his brother with a clean shirt, and pass for a peasant once outside the castle grounds because of his dirty feet.
"Will there be anything else?" Karl asked.
"No. You've been most helpful. Thank you Karl, especially for coming so early and with such short notice."
"You're welcome, Master Duncan."
After a bath Duncan couldn't believe Karl had described as warm, the prince dressed and ran his fingers through his hair. He knew Henry couldn't stand a hairy face, but couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a shaving knife. Perhaps he'd visit a barber today, but probably not.
Duncan stopped by the kitchen for a quick bite of toast and jam. Elizabeth begrudgingly gave him an orange as well, knowing they were his favorite, snorting her disapproval and turning up her nose. Even the cooks despised him for breaking tradition and not eating at the royal breakfast table.
"Thank you Elizabeth," Duncan said, smiling sincerely.
Just as Karl had predicted, Henry sat at the table in the council chambers, a stack of leather bound books before him and a parchment immediately under his nose. He looked up as Duncan entered, but returned to his scribbling.
"You're up early," Henry said.
"So are you," Duncan replied.
"I'm always up this early," Henry scoffed.
"So am I," Duncan answered.
Henry scribbled away. "Did you come here to say anything important? I have work to do."
Duncan found himself tongue tied. Why had he come again? Oh, yes. The girl. He opened his mouth only to be cut off before he formed a sentence.
"Where have you been lately? Nobody seems to be able to find you. Ever."
Duncan sighed. He hated interrogation. "Oh, around."
Henry chuckled darkly. "Not around here." He stopped writing and looked at his brother. Duncan braced himself. He knew that look; a scolding soon followed. "You know, you should be more careful. Gallivanting around the rows and alleys and who knows where else is a good way to get mauled."
Had he heard about the girl? The beast in prison for murder? Duncan hadn't actually been mauled, but he could have been.
"I have a good mind to start sending Worston after you as punishment."
"Not Worston," Duncan murmured. "He's the worst."
"Yes, he remembers well our growing up years and the soap you used to slip into his tea."
"Well why doesn't he hate you then? I wasn't the only one slipping things into his tea."
"I apologized." Henry held his head high for a moment, arrogant and condescending.
"Do as you wish, Brother." Duncan turned to leave. He should never have come. Talking to Henry could be so objectionable. It was no wonder Duncan worked so hard to avoid him.
Just as Duncan reached for the door, Henry's grating voice sounded again.
"Duncan, what do you know of the sleeping princess?"
Looking over his shoulder Duncan answered, "She's asleep." He hadn't intended to stop, but Henry stood and continued to quiz him.
"Yes, but what else?"
Duncan listed what he knew. "She was cursed as a child. Her father blamed our kingdom and stopped all trade."
"Yes, I know all that. But what else?"
"I know nothing else."
Prince Henry hesitated for a moment. "But she's not dead, right? She wouldn't be a ghost?"
"I haven't heard of anything like that. Why? Have you?"
"No, of course not," Henry answered.
"Why are you suddenly so interested in the sleeping princess?"
Henry reached an arm up and grabbed a section of his own hair, looking frazzled, perhaps even frustrated that Duncan provided nothing significant.
"Never mind. It's nothing." Henry stood there, thinking about something and Duncan longed for the days of not so long ago, when they'd shared everything.
Now was his chance. If he was ever going to ask his brother for help, or for information at least, it had to be right now, right after his brother had sought knowledge from him, even if he'd had nothing to give.
Turning away from the door, Duncan asked, "Henry, do you know anything about the woman in prison?"
Duncan watched his brother's face. He looked as though his thoughts had shattered and he'd been brought back to reality. Then he pulled a look of confusion, the same face he'd seen on his brother countless times, like whenever their father had told a joke.
"Why do you want to know?"
Duncan knew being direct would produce the best results. "I want to help her if I can."
"Well, I heard she is wild—something of a creature rather than man. Perhaps she's a barbarian. They do slip into our borders from time to time."
Prince Duncan thought about that. The barbarians lived to the south and west of them, acting as a barrier of sorts, separating them from the unfriendly country of Tern.
"And she'll be tried for murder, eventually. There is only one witness, but we can'
t afford to hold prisoners endlessly. She will be tried and the court will decide."
"When?"
Henry sat back down and reached into the piles of books, pulling down the second from the top. He opened it up, flipping toward the back. He turned them one by one now, until at last he found what he'd been searching for. Looking up at his brother he revealed what he'd found. "Fourteen days to allow for another witness, after that, who knows. It may depend on whether we need the prison cell. We can't keep anyone else in there with her."
"What if another witness doesn't come forward? What will happen to her then?"
"It depends on the outcome of the court hearing. If she isn't found guilty, which is doubtful given her conduct, she will be banished at the very least."
"Thank you, Brother." He turned to leave again.
"We'd love to see you at the next council meeting." Henry sounded annoyed more than hopeful, more humored than serious.
"I'll do what I can." Duncan waved but Henry called him back.
"Oh, and Duncan?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sure Karl would take a nice sharp knife to your face if you asked nicely."
"He might."
"Oh, and Duncan?"
"Yes?"
"Find some shoes." A smile Henry attempted to suppress crept up on his mouth.
Duncan rolled his eyes, calling, "No promises" over his shoulder as he left, heading toward the closest rear exit and hoping Henry hadn't been serious when he'd threatened to send Worston after him.
Low, thin rain clouds blocked much of the sun's light, and a sort of mist filled the air, as if the rain came from a source other than the sky.
Hurrying through the stone paths of the garden and onto the muddy roads, Duncan headed straight for Northeast Alley. The slight rain did not deter local merchants from opening their shops.
A guard stood at the top prison step, inspecting the gray sky. "Looks like it may not last long," he said as Duncan got closer.
"Quite," Duncan agreed. "How's the girl today?"
The guard looked at him. "Why, Prince Duncan, we hadn't expected you back."
"Well, for now, don't be surprised to see me. I will be visiting the woman regularly, and I want you to keep me informed if anything changes with her trial or with the witness."
"Yes, your majesty."
"May I see her?"
He turned around, the ring of keys attached to his side by a rope clanging with the movement. "Of course, sire. Follow me."
The rain had dampened all the stone steps and a portion of the dirt floor. Darker and damper than usual, the prison brought a dreary feeling to Duncan, a feeling of hopelessness and surrender, of doom and foreboding, of insecurity about where he stood and why he'd come. Could coming here make any difference in the world to her? Could anything be done?
Seeing her there, a little way off from the corner and the mist coming through the window, still curled as if asleep or in great pain, Duncan gathered a little courage.
"Does she take any nourishment?" Duncan asked.
"Only water, sire. We haven't been able to get her to eat anything."
Duncan considered the conversation with his brother, his mentioning of the barbarians. "What's your name?" he asked the guard.
"Phillip, sire."
Duncan offered his hand, and as they shook, he noticed a bandage wrapped tightly around the man's arm from the wounds she'd inflicted in their attempts to imprison her. "Phillip, what have you tried giving her to eat?"
"Oh, all kinds of things, sire. Bread, fish, fruits and vegetables. Thomas even brought a bit of stew from home once. She wouldn't touch it."
Could it be? Could she really be a barbarian, a member of a cruel and blood thirsty people? And why then, would she be accused of murder? Barbarians killed anyone who crossed into their imagined borders.
"Phillip," Duncan said. "I want you to try raw meat."
"Raw meat, sire?" he asked, looking sideways at the prince as they stood before the prison cell.
"Yes, Phillip. Raw meat."
1
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
5
Beauty
Stella read to me once a story about a man who could never fall asleep. I wonder what it must be like for a person to live with such a dilemma. They must stare at their ceilings, out their windows, too many thoughts circling about in their minds, all the while sleep eluding them. It is the opposite for me. I long to be awake, to walk along the beach and place my hands in the cool ocean water, to feel the waves crash upon my legs and try to take me with them, to lie in my bed at night, restless and wide awake, or perhaps even tired. What would it feel like to be tired but unable to sleep?
I remember as a child sitting near the fireplace in my father's study. As he read a book with his glasses resting on the tip of his nose, wrote a letter with the quill scratching on the parchment, or just rested his eyes as a minstrel sang an epic poem, I could feel my eyelids growing so heavy, and my muscles seemed to melt before Stella could persuade me to my bed. She would carry me in her arms when at last I'd fallen asleep on the floor. Nothing could wake me then, just as nothing can wake me now.
While some lie awake, wishing that sleep would come and take them away, I lie asleep, wishing more than anything to open my eyes and wake up to the world around me.
I ache for movement, and in an attempt to get some exercise, I will often find myself running through an open field, or even flying above the buildings of the kingdom in an exerting dream, only to be swallowed up by the rising ocean waves. Drowning must feel a little like the spell I'm under.
I vaguely hear the harmonic chirping of crickets, a signal that it is most likely night time. I remember listening to them outside the castle walls when Father and Mother would let me stay up late and run through the garden trying to catch fire flies.
"Why do they make that sound?" I asked Father once.
"It is their station to make music for the night sky," Father answered. "Just as the moon exists to give us light in the darkness, crickets live to fill the silence with music."
I love listening to their song, but I do not wish to stay here in this glasshouse with Stella. Ever since meeting Prince Henry, I have longed to find him again. I want to know if he can really see and hear me, or if it was only a cruel trick of my slumbering state. If I were to find him, would I be able to talk with him as I had before? And how do I find him?
Rarely am I able to control what I dream about. I will begin to think about a pleasant place or memory, and then drift further and deeper into rest. At times, the dream is worth remembering, but there are also times when the dream will take a bizarre turn. The meadow I want to run through will grow vines that trip my feet; the roses of the rose garden will be dying and there is nothing I can do to save them; or someone I love, like Father or Mother or Aunt Cornelia, will try to harm me. Even in dreams you cannot escape the reality that life is full of both the extraordinary and the dull, both the elating and the sorrowful, the calm and the dangerous. All things, especially good dreams, are terminable, but that does not mean they are incapable of leaving a permanent impression.
If I had truly met Prince Henry, and he could actually see and hear me, couldn't that mean that I had experienced a bit of real life in my dream? That though danger and sadness are part of the natural order, if I was with him in reality, and not merely in a state of dreaming, I would only be subject to real danger and sadness, and not the torment of a strangely horrible dream that would not loosen its grasp on me?
I want to know.
I need to find him again.
Accepting that if I do find him things may or may not be like they were before, I decide to try. The prospect of finding him only to learn that he was like any other person in my dreams—intangible and unintelligent—and that he could not converse with me, rustles my thoughts at first, causing little butterflies of insecurity to flit about my stomach and around my heart. I banish the idea and focus solely on the kingdom of Fallund
, its grassy hillsides and spacious meadows, its wheat fields and forests, its tiny bit of ocean front with majestic cliffs, and its dark, circular castle, topped with a single tower.
We had visited Fallund once in my short childhood, and I could remember well the sites we frequented, and the landscapes we had traveled through. It was impractical to go by ship, the country being for the most part land-locked, bordered on the north by my own kingdom of Cray, and on the south and west by Tern.
I imagine a carriage, black and round, complete with two white horses and a driver. The horses neigh and whine as the wind blows their wild manes about. The driver is dark as well, hooded and cloaked in a robe of black, but I can see his face, and though a little blurry and indistinguishable, it does not appear unkind. Lastly, I create in my dream a beautiful gown, scarlet and jeweled, covered by a dark brown kirtle, and wear my hair in a braided bun. The sky above, not vast as normal, but only directly above the carriage and me, looks like it will send rain.
"Where would you like to go?" the driver asks, and he sounds much older than he appears.
"To Fallund," I yell above the wind. Has he heard me? My voice seems to catch on a piece of breeze and float away.
He looks ahead of him, muttering something to the horses. "Get in then," he yells back.
I board the carriage in two quick steps. There are no doors, and thankfully, no other passengers. It is night, and a dark one at that, so I cannot see where we are going, or what the scenery looks like. Nothing but black passes by, so I lean my head back and rest, closing my eyes and drawing in deep, lengthy breaths.
When the carriage rumbles and jolts to a stop, I open my eyes and sit up.
"This is as far as I go," the man yells back to me. "They don't let carriages on castle grounds."
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast Page 4