by Jean Ferris
But instead she rushed over to him and grabbed his hands in hers. Her eyes looked off over his shoulder, focusing on something that seemed inside herself. "Oh!" she cried and let go, then ran away from him to gather her book and her dogs. Just as she was dashing to the stone archway leading indoors, her parents came sweeping out, followed by Prince Cyprian, Sir Magnus, a gaggle of courtiers and hangers-on, and servants carrying folding chairs, parasols, rugs, and trays of food.
"Ah, Marigold," said King Swithbert. "So happy we've found you. We're having a lovely luncheon alfresco today and have been looking for you to join us."
"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "I seem to have developed a sick headache."
Christian couldn't be sure, but he thought she'd flashed him a glance. Was she thinking, as he was, of Bub and his sick headaches, the ones he got from pretending to be brave? Had she discerned who he was from holding his hands? If she had, why had it distressed her so? And why had she grabbed his hands in the first place? Wasn't that an unusual way for a princess to behave with a servant?
"A little fresh air will be just the thing, then," Queen Olympia said, herding Marigold away from the archway without actually touching her.
"Yes," Prince Cyprian said languidly. "It won't be a party without you."
"I wish you would stay," Sir Magnus said, awkwardly taking her hand—the one holding the book—and kissing it with a loud smacking sound. Everyone but King Swithbert took an involuntary step backward.
Christian was surprised to see that Magnus wasn't afraid to touch Marigold. Maybe he was thinking only complimentary thoughts. Or maybe the book in Marigold's hand somehow interfered with her ability to perceive his thoughts. Or maybe, as Christian suspected, Magnus's head was so empty, there were too few thoughts to read.
"We missed you at dinner last night," Cyprian said, stifling a yawn. "The party wasn't the same without you."
"Indeed not," King Swithbert chimed in. "Much less ... or perhaps much more ... well, you know how it is."
Christian imagined that the contents of King Swithbert's head must look like the junk pile in the blacksmith shop.
"You there," one of the other servants called to Christian. "Come help us lay out this luncheon."
Obediently, Chris unrolled carpets and carried tables and set up chairs while the guests stood around waiting impatiently for their picnic to be presented to them. Then he packed up his tools for the unfinished job on the wall, so as not to offend the royalty with signs of honest, sweaty, satisfying labor.
He was in the kitchen eating bread and cheese for lunch when Meg, the scullery maid, came in with a trayful of dirty dishes. "I swear, these royal people are useless," she said. "All they ever do is eat and change their clothes—especially the queen. That woman must wear six outfits a day. Sure, they wouldn't know an honest day's work if it bit them in the—" She stopped and giggled.
"They've never had to work," Christian said, "so they can't know the satisfaction of a job well done. Still, they don't seem to do any harm."
"No need to worry about harm around here," she retorted. "This kingdom has been peaceful since I was a baby. The king does nothing for us."
"Perhaps the kingdom has been peaceful for so long because of the way the king has ruled."
Meg made a face. "Oh, never mind that. I'm just ever so grateful for that new butter churn you fashioned. The butter makes so much faster now."
"I'm glad you like it. I enjoy inventing things."
She came up next to him, where he sat over his bread and cheese in the quiet kitchen, and put her arms around him. "It's just about the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me!." she exclaimed.
"Well, I didn't do it just for...," Christian began, but before he could finish, she kissed him full on the mouth.
Well, here was something the etiquette book had never covered. What was the proper response to this situation? Would it be rude if he pushed her away? Was it necessary to kiss her back?
Before he could decide what to do, there was the thud of boots on the kitchen's stone floor followed by a strangled roar and the unmistakable metallic ring of a sword being unsheathed. At that, Meg sprang back from Christian, and the two of them looked up into the furious countenance of Rollo, the guard from the drawbridge.
"Meg!" he bellowed, drawn up to his full height of eight feet, two inches. "You said you were finished with this sort of thing!"
"'Twasn't me," she said, backing away from Christian and pointing. "'Twas him."
"No, I didn't—" Christian stopped short, the point of the sword an inch from his nose.
"Oh, don't, Rollo," Meg cried, throwing her arms around as much of the giant as she could reach. "He meant no harm. You always say I'm the prettiest wench in the castle, don't you, now? Can I help it if I draw men to me like flies to honey?"
The sword point moved back an inch.
She went on. "Can you really blame him?" She tightened her embrace, and her voice took on an even more cajoling tone. "It only proves what excellent taste you have." When the sword point stayed where it was, she added, "You should save your sword arm"—she scrambled up onto a chair to stroke his biceps—"for other uses."
Gradually Rollo lowered the sword, and Christian began to breathe again. He wanted to explain what had happened but decided that perhaps keeping his mouth shut just now would be the smarter thing. Rollo wouldn't believe him anyway, no matter what he said.
"One more time," Rollo said, waving the sword in front of Christian. "If I have just one more problem with you, no one in the kingdom will be able to save you. Am I clear?"
Christian simply stared back. It took a terrific amount of effort not to look away, but Rollo needed to know he wasn't dealing with some chickenhearted invertebrate.
Then the sword waggled toward the door. "Now get out of here."
Christian resisted the impulse to hurry. He gave Rollo one last long look and then turned, picked up his bread and cheese, and left the kitchen. He'd eat outside.
9
Sedgewick was polishing a great silver samovar in the summer pantry when Christian came in. He'd puzzled long and hard, over his bread and cheese, about what had happened with Meg and Rollo—and he was puzzling still.
"What's with the frown?" Sedgewick asked. "Anybody would think Rollo caught you kissing Meg."
"How did you know?" Christian asked, astounded. Did Sedgewick have the same curse as Princess Marigold, without the need for touching?
Sedgewick's eyebrows shot up. "You were? He did?" He put his hand over his eyes. "I should have warned you, but I never thought she'd act so fast. She's Rollo's girl, and Rollo has the worst temper of anybody in the kingdom, except maybe Queen Olympia. But Meg has an eye for the lads, and Rollo knows it, so he keeps a close watch on her. And anybody who messes with her goes on his blacklist forever. That's why she picks on the new lads. Everybody else knows better. Unless they're trying to commit suicide."
"But I didn't do the kissing," Christian said. "It was her. She started it."
"Meg's a friendly girl, no doubt about it," Sedgewick said. "Exactly the kind of girl you want to watch your step with." And then he explained a few essential facts to Christian about women and manners and being smart about both. "Now, I think you'd better get back to work on that wall. The queen wants it done in time for the wedding she's determined to have."
As Christian lugged his basket of tools back up to the riverside terrace, he felt like a complete bumpkin and a total fool to boot. The smart thing would have been to have stayed in the cave with Ed, where he understood his life and couldn't get into any trouble. But the urge to see more of the world had been too strong—and was still strong, in spite of Meg and Rollo and the pain of having Marigold so close yet so unreachable. He felt alive in a way he hadn't known was possible on the other side of the river. And strangely, that sense he'd always had of something big coming, of some ... some purpose awaiting him, was more powerful than ever.
The big lesson he'd learned today was that t
he etiquette book didn't solve every problem. There were some situations where he'd have to rely on his own common sense—which he was quickly, out of necessity, acquiring more of.
And he knew that he and Rollo would be having another confrontation.
As he came around a turn in the stone staircase that led up to the terrace, he heard a woman speaking and stopped. Someone must have left open the door to a room in the hallway off the staircase. He hadn't expected to be faced with another manners dilemma so soon. What was the proper etiquette for a situation like this? The speaker apparently wasn't aware that she could be overheard. Should he make a noise to let her know he was coming? Or tiptoe silently away? Or keep going as if he were deaf? Or perhaps gently shut the door?
As he stood wondering, he couldn't help overhearing every word she was saying.
"Ah, Fenleigh, which one do you think Marigold should marry? Cyprian, so she can go off to Upper Lower Grevania? Or Magnus, so she can stay here and keep me from being queen?"
Christian heard a faint growl.
"Oh yes," Olympia said. "I think so, too. Better for her to be far away. If she stays here with Magnus—well, there's no telling what sort of accident she might need to have, is there? Maybe one that involved poor old Swithbert, too. Wouldn't that be a shame, Fenleigh? My husband and daughter gone in one stroke."
Again Chris heard the growl. And once he'd heard Marigold's name and the threat associated with it, he knew he wasn't going to be doing any tiptoeing away.
"Oh, I know she doesn't love Magnus or Cyprian—she doesn't even like them—but what does that have to do with anything? Royal marriages aren't made for love—surely you don't think I married Swithbert for love, do you, Fenleigh? Royal marriages are made out of necessity—for alliances, for trade, and for heirs."
There was a silence interrupted by the clink of glass against glass, and the sound of lapping. "There, Fenleigh, did a nice drinkie make you feel better? You know, since Magnus has no realm of his own, think how grateful he'd be, as a bereaved widower, if I set him up with a little manor house somewhere and a small fiefdom he couldn't get into too much mischief with. He wouldn't make any trouble for me." Her voice hardened. "Not if he's sensible, he wouldn't."
Again the growl.
"Well, Marigold needs to choose. Enough reading, and playing with those awful dogs that chase you around all the time, and fussing with her plants. It's time for her to become more ... more regal. And the farther away the better. But if she's close ... well, that can be managed, too. After all, I do look quite well in black. Don't you agree, Fenleigh?"
Christian gasped and then clapped a hand over his mouth. Picking her nose and wiping her hands on her dogs wouldn't work for Marigold this time. Olympia sounded determined. And if Marigold did manage to scare Cyprian off, Magnus would be harder to discourage. He needed a place to live even more than he needed a bride.
Christian had to get out of there before he got caught listening, and go someplace where he could think. Hastily, he turned and tiptoed down the stairs as fast as he could go.
"Did you hear something, Fenleigh?" Queen Olympia asked, as Christian made it around the next bend in the stairs.
Chris heard the click of heels coming down the stairs behind him, and he went faster, the sound of his footsteps masked by the clicking and the growling. At the landing, he ducked into an alcove covered by a heavy velvet curtain. He stood in the dark behind the curtain, holding his basket of tools against his chest like a shield. He could feel things around him, but he could see nothing.
The heels went across the landing and on down the stairs, and Christian let out the breath he'd been holding for so long he was almost blue. But he stayed where he was. What if Queen Olympia came silently up the stairs again and caught him cowering there like the guilty eavesdropper he was?
After waiting what seemed a week, he carefully pulled the heavy curtain aside an inch and peered out. The landing and the stairs, for as far as he could see, were empty. The light that then came into the alcove showed him he was surrounded by suits of armor. If he'd made even a slight move in the wrong direction, many pounds of metallic figures would have fallen over in a cataract of noise that would have sealed his fate in an instant. Then he would have wished that Rollo's sword had put a swift end to him in the kitchen.
His heart thumping, Christian stepped out from behind the curtain, holding his basket carefully so the tools wouldn't clank together. He stood for a moment, listening. He heard nothing. Then, in spite of his already galloping heartbeat, he tore up the stairs as if a pack of rabid dogs were at his heels.
He was surprised to find the luncheon party still lolling about on the terrace, sipping their wine and sponging happily off the generous and dotty King Swithbert. The king seemed so pleased to be surrounded by his relatives and guests, and was apparently unaware that at least some of them were there not from affection or for the pleasure of his company but for the free meals and lavish entertainment.
Christian wondered if he had really just heard Queen Olympia suggesting a convenient accident for both Marigold and King Swithbert if Marigold married Magnus. Convenient for the queen, that is—certainly not for Swithbert and Marigold.
Oh, he needed Ed now more than he had in his entire life. Whom else could he talk to about what he'd overheard? Whom else could he trust? No matter how much he might be learning to trust himself, it was still good to have another person to double-check things with.
Was this how Ed had meant for him to learn to be independent? By having things like this happen to him and by then having to manage them by himself?
He felt as if he'd lived a whole lifetime of emotions in the two days that he'd been at the castle. The existence he'd lived with Ed seemed as far away as a fairy tale—one he didn't know if he could fit back into.
As fraught as his current situation was, he felt wide awake and alert in a way he never had before. Now he needed to use all his brains and skills and courage to find out if King Swithbert and Marigold were really in any danger, or if Queen Olympia had just been musing to herself—and to Fenleigh. He was pretty sure this wasn't a situation that was covered in the etiquette book.
He lingered in the archway at the top of the staircase, wondering if it would be all right for him to begin work again while the royal party was still there.
Princess Marigold stood apart from the others, tossing a ball for her dogs to chase. Prince Cyprian sat in a chair nearby, applauding when one of the dogs made a successful catch.
"Bravo!" he called. "So clever! So athletic. So well-trained. By such a—" He paused. "An accomplished mistress," he finished.
Christian snorted from the shadows under the archway. Some suitor he was. Why didn't he call her lovely, or enchanting, or fascinating? Accomplished? That was like complimenting someone on their spelling or their dish-washing abilities. Barely praise at all. Why, if he were her suitor, he'd have plenty of things he could say. Wasn't Cyprian paying any attention at all to what she was like? Couldn't he see how curious she was, how loving to her dogs and her befuddled father, how capable in running her perfume business, how loyal, how bright, and how spirited? And how lonely she must be, surrounded by people who wanted only to use her for their own ends and who wouldn't even touch her for fear of revealing that?
Christian had a feeling she knew it without having to touch anyone.
He was becoming more hot under the collar by the moment. He had to calm himself down. Because even if he could tell these things to Prince Cyprian, what good would it do? Inexperienced as he was, he knew that you couldn't talk someone into loving somebody. Loving had to happen on its own.
King Swithbert spotted Chris lingering in the archway. "Come, come, young man," he beckoned. "If you're here to work, you should get to it. Don't mind us. We won't interfere."
Several of the courtiers snickered. As if they would dream of involving themselves with actual useful labor. Swithbert, dotty as he was supposed to be; at least seemed to understand that work h
ad to be done, sometimes at an inconvenient moment.
Christian carried his tools to the wall and began scraping out the old crumbling mortar as quietly as he could, trying to remain inconspicuous. Far across the river, he could see the waterfall where once he'd bathed, and from where he'd watched this very terrace on which he never expected to be standing.
He heard Princess Marigold ask Prince Cyprian, "Have you ever read the Greek myths?"
"Greek myths, Greek myths," he repeated. "Can't say that I have. I'm not much of a reader. Why do you ask? Do I remind you of any of the gods?"
"I was thinking of Narcissus. He was so handsome that every woman he met fell in love with him."
"How kind of you." Prince Cyprian preened. "How very kind."
Christian ducked his head to hide a smile. Narcissus was handsome, all right, but the only person he loved was himself. He sat by a pool staring at his own reflection in the water for so long that he forgot to eat and drink, and so he wasted away to his death.
Princess Marigold caught Christian's eye, and he realized she'd seen his smile. He hoped he wasn't going to be punished. Perhaps she had meant to give Cyprian an honest compliment. But no. The way she gave him a faint smile in return made them conspirators. How clever she was. How subtle and smart. Prince Cyprian wasn't good enough to carry her train. What a choice her mother was going to insist she make, Christian thought: Cyprian or Magnus.
If only there were a way for him to give her a third choice.
10
As Christian worked on the wall, Prince Cyprian rose from his chair and approached King Swithbert, drawing him apart from the rest of the party, closer to Christian. Like all servants, Chris was invisible to those he served—at least until they wanted something from him or he did something wrong.
"Listen, Swithbert, old man," Cyprian said. "You know this daughter of yours is a hard sell in the marriage market. I mean, the fact of her curse, and that she's plainer than those bombshell sisters of hers. And smart. Don't forget about that. Not many men wanting to take on a smart woman these days, you know."