The Piano Girl - Part One (Counterfeit Princess Series)

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “A new road will be built.” Leeson’s voice was filled with hope.

  “It will take years.”

  “Years are better than today.”

  “Is there a road to Evland?” I asked.

  “Evland is poor. Blue Sky is rich.”

  I thought of the red-tiled rooftops of the homes in Blue Sky in contrast to the thatched-roof homes of Yonder. Yes, Blue Sky was rich.

  In the center of the village square, people brought animals, furniture, and other items of trade for auction. Bids were yelled until the final price was reached. A huge, muddy sow stood in the middle of the square.

  The people yelled, “Dirty pork.” The pig sold for nineteen dixels.

  It was my turn next. I led Waluga to the center of the square while Leeson, clutching his hands, waited on the perimeter. I kept my head covered and my face low, but still there were murmurings among the crowd.

  “She is an outsider,” one said.

  “Her face is odd.”

  “She is trying to hide.”

  I was not trying to hide. I was trying to sell a horse. No one knew me here. Though I was presently a stranger, I would someday be a part of their history. I flung back my hood.

  The villagers nearest me stepped back, alarmed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, informing those who couldn’t see of my greasy hair and pox-riddled face.

  “I am not selling myself. It is this fine mare and leather saddle that are for sale.”

  A hush fell over the crowd, followed by more murmurings.

  I looked for Leeson’s lean face amongst the crowd. The elderly man rolled a hand beneath his chin for me to continue.

  “What is on your face?” yelled a teenage boy.

  “I have swamp pox. It is not contagious. I fell face-first into the muck at Swamp Valley. Now…” I waited for the crowd noise to dim. “Waluga is a good horse. He is gentle and strong. He does not complain. With some hand-fed oats or hay, he will be your good friend.”

  The women, children, and even the men appeared mesmerized. Not by the horse, but perhaps by my speech and accent.

  “Ten dixels. Who will part with ten dixels?” the auctioneer asked.

  “I will.” A guard raised his hand.

  “Eleven,” said another.

  “Twenty,” a voice boomed. I hoped twenty was enough to pay for lodging and food. Remorse about getting rid of such a fine animal gripped me, but I had no choice.

  The bidding stopped at forty-four. I patted Waluga’s neck and whispered a sweet farewell. The final bidder—a shabbily dressed middle-aged man—came forward and handed me a selection of tarnished copper coins.

  “The Swamp Woman at forty-four.” The next item was rolled to the center of the square—a large wagon wheel.

  Leeson took the back of my elbow and guided me through the crowd. Men, women, and children alike stared at me, while maintaining their distance.

  “Your swamp pox are keeping you from being pickpocketed. Forty-four dixels!” he mumbled. “Half a year’s wages!”

  “It is?” Most likely it had been the fine leather saddle that had increased Waluga’s value. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Half a dixel.” Leeson stopped on the steps of a shingled mercantile building and turned to face me. “Why do you have a gun?”

  He must have found it when he brought wood in for the morning fire. I met his faint gray eyes. “On the way here, my companion died in Shepherd’s Field. It was his gun. I would not have survived without it. I often shot pheasant, quail, sometimes even chukar for my meals.”

  Leeson’s shoulders lifted as he swallowed.

  “If you will allow me to stay one more night, I will try and shoot a chukar for dinner.”

  He exposed a toothless grin. “If you buy some grain for your horse, you may stay for free.”

  His kindness sparked unexpected tears. Lodging at Leeson’s would give me time to heal and plan. I followed him inside the store and set a five-pound sack of coffee beans upon the counter.

  “You must not buy the coffee,” Leeson said.

  “A proper guest always brings a gift to the host.”

  His sparse white brows gathered. “Then I have never been a proper guest.”

  ΦΦΦ

  In a kettle hung high above the fire, dark coffee brewed. The smell filled Leeson and Elza’s home with memories. At their rough-hewn table, we enjoyed freshly brewed coffee in chipped earthenware mugs.

  “Where are you from, Dory?” Elza asked. Hunched forward, she peered into her mug.

  “It is best that I not tell you, Elza.” I looked across the length of the table at Leeson. “I can tell you that it is from far away and that I will not bring any harm to you or your home.”

  “Dhen why nod dell?”

  “After I heal, I will tell you.”

  Shaking her head, Elza disagreed.

  Leeson cleared his throat. “Is good coffee, Elza,” he said to silence his wife, and I was grateful.

  ‡

  Chapter Nine

  In the aspen area where I’d shot the chukar two days before, I tethered Plenty to a tree. Shotgun in hand, I walked quietly through the cheat grass. I wanted to be quick about my hunt, as I feared running into Prince Wron and his guards. I was certain of one thing: I could not meet Prince Wron, face-to-face, until I was well.

  In the open meadow area, three quail took flight. I shot once, bringing down two, and felt my luck was providential. Thank you, Lord. I quickly found the first bird, but the second bird took more time. After circling around the area thrice, I gave up and started back to my horse. Near Plenty, at the edge of the aspen trees, I was surprised to find the bird’s small, lifeless form in the grass. I put both birds in my saddlebag and rode back toward the village.

  As I rode past the gatehouse, one of the guards waved at me. I pretended not to notice and kept Plenty at a steady, natural pace. At Leeson’s smithy, I dismounted and quickly pulled the horse into the stable and barred the door. Through the solitary window, I watched as two uniformed guards on horseback rode through the streets.

  They couldn’t be after me. I’d done nothing wrong.

  ΦΦΦ

  Elza fried the quail in suet. I patted the sourdough into biscuits and hung the cast-iron pot over the fire. Leeson brewed the pot of coffee on a warm brick. The three of us turned our chairs to face the hearth, and firelight danced in our eyes.

  “Dory has broughd delicious smells do our home,” Elza said. “All dhad is missing is music.”

  Leeson picked up a hand-carved flute off a cleft in the bricks and placed it to his lips. An earthy melody filled the toasty warm room. It was rare for me to simply relax and enjoy someone else’s music. The poignant melody transported me to the beauty, and also the memory, of Shepherd’s Field. Closing my eyes, I tried not to remember my dear friend’s fate.

  Elza held a thick cloth to lift the pot’s lid and peered inside. Using both arms, she carried it to the table and set it down on two cold bricks. We moved slowly about the room until dinner was ready.

  “Like a Chrisdmas meal; all dhad is missing is an onion.”

  After our fine meal and coffee, I asked for permission to go to the mercantile.

  Elza nodded. “You remember dee way and you will redurn?”

  “Yes.”

  At the mercantile, I purchased a bag of onions and a crock of honey. I had often thought on the trail how much sweeter my circumstances would have been with honey to slather on my sourdough. When I returned and set the honey and onions on the table, Elza could not stop mumbling.

  “You will spoil us. You will run oud of money. God has send us an angel in our old age.”

  I rested on my bed in the warm little room. With my back against the wall, I studied my dirty bare feet. On my next trip to the mercantile, I would see what Yonder sold in the way of shoes. Perhaps my next set of shoes should not have heels, as they would not be very practical for hunting.

  Elza set a spindle of yarn by my side, and I began
rolling it into a ball for her. Their home was the perfect environment for my healing. I would stay here, gather herbs, and follow the medicinal instructions that Dixie had written down for me. I leaned back against the wall, content with my decision.

  The front door swung open. Leeson’s shoulders hung low, as if he carried bad news. Two uniformed guards walked in behind him. The fair-haired guard I recognized as Cragdon from the night before. I remained seated on the bed while a hundred questions raced through my head.

  “These men have come to talk with Dory,” Leeson said.

  Elza looked at the men’s dusty leather boots. “Would you care for coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.” Cragdon looked over at me. “Leeson and Elza are good citizens of Yonder,” he said. “But you, Swamp Woman, were seen hunting on the king’s land today.”

  “I was told to hunt south of the aspens,” I said.

  “Two of our men, who were hunting in the hills, saw you pick up game off the king’s land.”

  I thought of the bird that had fallen on the edge of the cheat grass. “One of my birds fell close to the aspen. Closer than I foresaw. But I was not on the king’s land when I shot.”

  Behind him, Elza clasped her hands below her chest in silent, but visible, prayer.

  “I am sorry, Swamp Woman, that you are not more familiar with Yonder’s laws. You owe the crown one month’s time for your crime.”

  “Crime?” The fire crackled in the hearth.

  “Yes, thirty days.” Cragdon nodded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will be imprisoned. After your crime is reviewed, you will labor for the crown for one month.”

  “She was only trying to please us with a special meal,” Leeson informed them.

  “I am sorry,” Cragdon said. “But the law is the law.”

  My hands were tied in front of me, and while Elza began to weep, I was ushered outside. From the cinching and the rope’s frayed edges, the dry, scaly spots on my hands cracked and oozed. Adults and children alike paused from what they’d been doing to watch as I was led through the streets.

  When we reached the gatehouse, the guards blindfolded me.

  “Is this to add to my torture?” I didn’t understand.

  “No. It is so you will not know the way, should you try to escape,” Cragdon said.

  As they led me through the gates, I imagined a courtyard on my right, as there was a floral scent in the air, perhaps of lilacs. To my left was the braying of stabled horses, and the smell of hay. Do not be afraid. I relied on the comforting voice that sometimes whispered inside my head. You have been through worse. Despite what I had already been through, I was terrified. I’d never toured my father’s prison at Blue Sky, but stories had reached me. Stories that often kept me up when I was young, and made me scared enough that I would encamp outside my parents’ room to eventually sleep at the foot of their bed.

  Father . . . Tears ebbed at the corners of my eyes. A door groaned open, and I was led down a rocky, uneven path. As we descended toward the underground, the air dampened and cooled. Absent was the light that had earlier teased through the blindfold. Father… I thought on his loving eyes. If only you knew how wrong your plans have gone. You’d be here now to save me. You’d be here.

  The two guards who guided me down into the bowels of death were my future countrymen. They would remember my bravery and my fear.

  Father in heaven, help me to be brave.

  ΦΦΦ

  My blindfold was removed, and my heart gonged loudly in my chest. I peered down a cavern-like corridor with torches between each of the cells, which appeared to have been excavated out of the rock. A guard pulled open the first barred door on our left and then pushed me inside. I stumbled to my knees and waited there. A key turned in the lock. Footsteps retreated. I was alone. Or was I?

  I listened.

  “Who is she?” a muffled voice asked.

  “Silence,” a hoarse voice whispered.

  Fingers of daylight seeped through the gaps in the upper masonry of my cell. It did not make sense to me how we could descend into this pit, yet still have daylight. I stayed several feet back from the door—afraid of what I’d see, and of being seen.

  My gaze shifted. Directly across the corridor, my nearest companion, a gaunt, wiry man, waved a hand. “Hello.” Wild gray hair plumed about his ears.

  “Hello. I’m Dory.” I waved slightly in return.

  “I’m Knot.”

  “Oh.” Knot was an odd name. I wondered if he meant he was not Dory?

  “Why are you here?” Knot asked loud enough for the other prisoners to hear.

  “Disobedience. Why are you here?” Leaning my head, ever so slightly, I counted two more prisoners on Knot’s side—a massive human and a lean, elderly man.

  “The same.”

  “How long have you been here?” My mouth grew dry.

  “Three years and . . .” He gestured to tally marks on the stone behind him. “Well, to be exact, today is my 1,151st day.”

  From the looks of Knot, he had not eaten in those three years.

  I sank down on the wood plank cot that spanned the back wall of my cell, and tried to think of something humorous. Maybe someday Prince Wron would find out that I was Princess Alia, and he’d feel bad that I died of hunger and discomfort in his prison. Maybe my father would regret that he’d sent me on this grand adventure with only one chaperone. Instead of humor, I found that I had many memories to repress and no piano.

  Had anyone ever died in my father’s prison? Had anyone died here?

  “Up, you.” A robust man stood on the other side of my cage, holding a long wooden stick. “It’s time to earn your bread.”

  The gaoler called over another guard, and one by one the cell doors were opened. I joined the other prisoners, and we shuffled down a narrow, mold-ridden stairwell, toward what appeared to be a wide paddle wheel. With the gaoler barking orders and batting the stick in his hand, we took positions on a blade of the paddle and held on to a bar that was shoulder high. One of the prisoners, a tall, thin man named Long, was blind. Everyone waited for him to step into place on the end of the paddle wheel.

  The large wheel loomed above the roar of the river. I didn’t understand in the slightest what was happening. Knot stood on my right, his face skeleton-lean.

  “We’re going to walk for miles,” he said. The foul odor that hung in the air between us made me question when he’d last brushed his teeth, or taken a bath.

  “Silence!” the gaoler yelled.

  “Then explain to the Swamp Woman,” Knot demanded.

  He knew my title.

  “Silence!” the gaoler yelled. “You are to earn your room and board. You are to walk the treadmill until I tell you to stop. You walk together, or the paddle will not turn to grind the grain for Yonder.”

  “We walk together so no one gets hurt,” Knot whispered. “Do not let go of the bar.”

  On the count of three, the six of us began walking. Each step was similar to climbing a steep hillside. The water from the blades splashed the bottom of my long skirt. My legs quickly grew heavy, and my lungs burned. If I fell, my body would be crushed by the blades and plummet to the river below.

  “It is monotonous work that breaks a prisoner’s soul,” Knot said. “In prison, you will find that your mind is your greatest enemy.”

  “The same holds true outside of prison,” I said.

  “What is our new friend’s name?” asked Long, the blind man.

  “Dory,” I said.

  “Silence!” the gaoler yelled.

  “Duron is harmless,” Knot whispered.

  Duron, the robust man who Dixie had recommended, was the gaoler! I had not imagined meeting him under such circumstances.

  The bread we’d earned for walking the treadmill was a stale piece of rye with no butter and a main course of watery porridge. I looked at the crude bowl and could not eat.

  “You must eat the gruel, Swamp Woman,”
Knot said. “You will need the energy. We will walk again soon.”

  I took a bite of the dribbly meal. “How did you know that I am the Swamp Woman?”

  “The guards talk, and your face is proof of who you are.”

  Shortly after our meal, we again worked the treadmill. The second time was not as interesting as the first. Not being able to converse made the work feel endless. To endure, I escaped inside my mind and thought of Leeson and Elza.

  “Duron is not looking. What is your favorite pie?” Knot asked.

  What an odd topic. “I prefer the tartness of gooseberry. And yours?”

  He smiled. “Rhoda’s peach pie.”

  “What is your favorite entrée?” I asked.

  “Rhoda’s pork tenderloin with apricot glaze. And you?”

  “Oh . . .” My mouth watered at the mere thought of where I was headed. “Coq au vin.”

  “Rooster with wine?” Knot chuckled.

  He’d obviously not had it. “Yes, chicken slowly cooked in red wine with sautéed onions, mushrooms, and bacon.”

  “You know how to make a prisoner weep. And, I must say, you are well educated for a commoner,” Knot said.

  “You are well educated for a prisoner.” Already, my lungs had begun to burn, and I felt short of breath.

  “I was adviser to the king.” His face was jaundiced and the whites of his eyes yellow.

  “What happened?” My smile faded.

  “I gave the wrong advice.”

  ΦΦΦ

  After we worked the treadmill for a second time, Duron locked my cell behind me. I gathered courage. “Do you recall Dixie, the herbalist, and her awful parsley tea?”

  “Aye.” He scowled.

  “What remedy healed you?”

  “Garlic, but you won’t be getting any here.” He walked away. Duron was not as kindhearted as I’d hoped.

  I was going to shrivel away to nothing like Knot and die here in the dungeon of Yonder. Instead of Our Beloved Queen, my grave marker would simply read: Swamp Woman. Or would they even bury me, a prisoner? They might just drop my body through the slats of the treadmill to the river below.