by Jean Ferris
"You stay here," he said to the pigeons. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
He ran down the steps into the castle without any idea of where he was going. He headed down the first hallway he came to, gingerly opening doors and peeking inside. This seemed to be a floor of bedrooms, mostly unoccupied, though he did come upon several people napping, and one tableau of a young man kneeling at a young woman's feet. They both were weeping, and turned wet, startled faces to him as he hastily backed away saying, "Pardon. Pardon. Wrong room."
At the end of the hall was a large room with books enclosed behind glass doors on all four walls. A writing table with ornately carved legs stood in the center of the room, well-stocked with pens, ink, and writing paper. Christian knew he couldn't stand there writing for as long as his tale would take to explain, so he stuffed paper and writing implements into the pockets of his apron. Walking quickly but carefully, so as not to spill the ink, he made it back to the terrace.
He constructed a little barricade of chairs where he was supposed to be working and settled down to scratch out the story for Ed. The pigeons cooed impatiently as they paced along the wall. They'd gotten used to the grain Marigold gave them when they came calling at the castle before, and were quite put out to see that Christian wasn't providing the same treat.
Finally he squeezed what he'd written so far into their message cylinders and sent them back across the river while he continued telling all that he knew about the castle intrigues, three lines at a time.
And every time Walter and Carrie flew across the river, Rollo, watching from up in the barbican, kept track.
THAT EVENING Christian was again in charge of the wine at dinner. Prince Cyprian's retinue made the most of their final banquet, swilling and chomping as if it would be their last meal on earth. Prince Cyprian was having such a grand old time, singing and pinching the serving wenches, that anyone who was paying attention—and Marigold was—could see that he had no regrets.
Swithbert bumbled along having his usual good time, though Christian now knew that the gleam in his eyes came not entirely from the rheuminess of age. The gleam came also from the intelligence and lucidity of a king who might be old and infirm but had lost none of his faculties.
As for Sir Magnus, he was enjoying his peacock pie and suet pudding with marmalade as if he were already the royal consort.
In the middle of dinner, Queen Olympia stood and banged on her glass with her spoon. In the general din of the extravaganza of eating, the diners didn't even hear her. She tried a few more times without success and then motioned one of the fanfare trumpeters over. A moment later a blast from his instrument stopped everyone, midslurp, midcrunch, or midword.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Olympia said, "and the rest of you, too." She waved her hands to indicate most of the guests. "My husband has an announcement to make." She nodded in King Swithbert's direction.
The king stood, looked around in a bemused manner, and then nodded back in her direction. "You go ahead, my dear," he said, and sat down.
"Very well," she said, adjusting the heavy gold jewelry around her neck. "It gives us great pleasure tonight to announce the engagement of our daughter, Princess Marigold Felicity January Pearl, to Sir Magnus Tobias Hunter. The wedding invitations have gone out to neighboring kingdoms by swift horses, and those of you who are already here are invited to stay. The ceremony will be in three days' time."
The old bat wasn't wasting any time, Christian thought, scrutinizing Marigold for her reaction.
She had turned, aghast, to gape at her mother, and Christian understood that while she had doubtless known she no longer had a choice of suitors, she had known nothing of these hasty wedding plans until that very moment.
The diners burst into applause—no doubt at the prospect of at least three more days of freeloading—and a number of them rushed to congratulate Magnus and Marigold. It did not escape Christian that never once did Magnus look in Marigold's direction, nor she in his. Queen Olympia hadn't been kidding when she said royal marriages weren't based on love.
The tear in the corner of Christian's heart deepened a little.
The evening was excruciatingly long. With more to celebrate, the guests partied harder than ever, dancing on the tabletops and tossing their empty glasses into the huge fireplace. Every broken glass and kicked-over pitcher of wine added to the time the servants would be cleaning up after them.
Christian wondered if he'd be sleeping at all that night. And not just because he'd be so busy with the cleanup.
12
As it turned out, Christian never even got near his bed of straw. By the time he had finished sweeping up the shards of glass and the spilled food that littered the Great Hall, the first rays of morning sunlight were coming down through the tall, leaded-glass windows.
He dumped the piles of debris in the dustbin and went to wash his hands before getting back to work. Might as well finish the terrace wall. Might as well throw himself over the wall, actually. That, at least, would cure the whopping headache he'd had ever since Queen Olympia had announced Marigold's engagement—a headache made even worse when King Swithbert said how happy he was that Marigold and Magnus would continue to live in the castle. From the look on the queen's face when he'd said that, Christian could imagine she was thinking about the kinds of accidents that could happen to both Marigold and the king.
He dragged his tool basket up the stairs and went out onto the terrace into the early light. Across the river the spray from the waterfall threw rainbows out over the water, and the dewdrops on the flowers in the terrace pots glittered like diamonds. It was disgustingly glorious.
He dropped his basket of tools and leaned his elbows on the wall, hoping to see Ed looking at him through the telescope, or Walter and Carrie on their way to him with the answer to his prayers. But none of them was anywhere in sight.
Turning his head, he saw Marigold leaning on the wall, way down at the other end of the terrace, still in that awful, overwrought gown. She, apparently, hadn't slept, either. When she turned and saw him, their eyes held for a long, expressive moment. She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers at him. He lifted his hand, too, and then knew what he had to do.
Christian ran the length of the terrace and pulled her into his arms. "You can't marry Magnus," he exclaimed, throwing restraint to the winds. "You can't. It will kill you."
She laid her head against his chest and hugged him back. "I know," she said. "But what else can I do?"
"You can run away with me." He almost looked over his shoulder to see who had spoken those words, they came so unexpectedly out of his mouth. Oh well. Might as well be a goat as a cow. Or whatever. "You can bring the dogs. My dogs would love that. You'd never have to wear one of these"—he swatted at the floppy bow on the gown's shoulder—"again."
He felt her smile against his chest. "That is the nicest offer anyone has ever made to me," she said. "But it's impossible. It would break Papa's heart. And it would guarantee my mother would be the ruler of the kingdom."
"She's going to be ruler anyway," Christian said. Maybe he'd have been more circumspect if he wasn't light-headed from fear and lack of sleep, but he wasn't sure. "I wasn't kidding when I said marrying Magnus would kill you. I overheard your mother talking to that ferret of hers, and she wants you out of her way—and your father, too. As in fatal accident. Then she's going to pack Magnus off to his own manor, and she gets to be sole ruler."
He held his breath, waiting for her to call for some soldiers to take him away for committing treason.
Marigold looked up at him, astonished. "My own mother is thinking this? Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure," he said, not loosening his hold on her. It was too late to back up now. "Sure enough to make me think it would be a good idea for you to get out of here until she can be stopped."
"Well, my goodness," Marigold said. "I wish I could say I don't believe you." Resting her head against his heart, she sighed deeply. Then, after a moment, she raised her head, lo
oked into his eyes, and smiled a perfectly dazzling smile. "I should have known it was you. When I first touched you, I could tell you were thinking ... well ... warm thoughts about me. But I didn't realize it was really you. Somehow I never thought we'd actually meet. I thought we'd still be p-mailing even when I was an old lady, married off in some distant kingdom. Imagine me finding you right now when I need you the most. Can't you tell me your real name now?"
Relief filled him. She knew him! He could be her best friend again with no more pretending. "First, I want you to know how awful I've felt about having had to deceive you," he told her. "We promised never to lie or deceive, but I just couldn't, as a commoner, insist that a princess honor a best-friend promise, especially to a servant."
"Oh, don't you know friendship pays no attention to things like that? The heart doesn't care about anything except loyalty and comfort and companionship—which you've always given me and are still giving me. Now, please—it's unfair that you know my name and I don't know yours."
"It's Christian. You had it right one time out of six—and those were my favorite p-mails."
"I'm so glad it isn't Chauncey! You just never seemed like a Chauncey."
"How did you know it's me?"
"Because you're being my bulwark. The way my best friend promised to be."
"So you figured it out for yourself? You didn't read my mind?"
"I can only get thoughts and feelings, not names and addresses."
"I can't imagine thinking something I wouldn't want you to know anyway."
She lowered her eyes. "To tell the truth, I can't always do it. It only works when I'm unhappy. That's the part of the curse nobody knows about. And, of course, I've been sufficiently unhappy growing up here that I could do it often enough to scare people pretty badly. The first time it happened, I was only about four and my mother was dragging me back to the nursery because I'd interrupted her while she was playing whist with some of her ladies-in-waiting. I said to her, 'Do you really wish I'd never been born?' and she dropped my hand as if it were on fire and said, 'How did you do that?' So I knew, somehow, that I'd read her private thoughts. It happened a couple more times before she figured out it only happened when she was touching me. So she stopped. And pretty soon, everybody else did, too. Even my governess. Everybody except Papa. He was never afraid of me. But, then, he never had any thoughts that would bother me. And usually, I was happy around him, so I couldn't read him anyhow."
"I think you should grab hold of your mother and make sure what I'm afraid she's up to is really true. And if it is, you have to get out of here. You can stay with me and Ed if you want. Or go to one of your sisters. Then we can keep p-mailing the way you want. But I have to know you're safe."
"Is that really so important to you?"
The way she was looking at him made him feel quite jingle-brained—she would have fun reading those thoughts. "Yes," he said after shaking his head to clear his mind. "I can hardly think of anything that matters more."
"I believe you," she said. "And now I'm losing your thoughts."
"Why? Because ... because ... you're happy?" He hardly dared hope that his concern for her would make her too happy to read his thoughts.
"I know it seems crazy to be happy to find out that my own mother wants me out of her way permanently. But by finding that out, I've also found out that my best friend is here and that he—" She blushed prettily and lowered her lashes. "I was so glad when you started writing to me," she whispered. "It was exactly what I needed then."
"I knew I was being very forward that day, but somehow I couldn't help myself. I was just so curious about what you were reading. I admit I was surprised when you answered me."
"So was I. But you couldn't know how lonely I was when you sent me that first message, how much I wanted a friend."
"Well, now you have one," he said, and hugged her again, wishing that right now she could read his thoughts and know that he wanted to be much more than just a friend to her.
At that moment, a platoon of castle soldiers, led by Rollo, burst up the stairs and out onto the terrace.
"Halt!" Rollo cried.
Christian and Marigold sprang apart. Was Rollo talking to them or to his soldiers?
"Take him!" Rollo said, and Christian found himself pinioned by more soldiers than he could count, all of them bristling with weapons.
"Stop it!" Marigold demanded. "I'm the princess here, and I command you to stop!"
"Sorry, princess," Rollo said. "You're outranked by the queen, whose orders I'm carrying out."
"But what have I done?" Christian asked.
"Aside from mauling a royal personage, you mean?" Rollo asked, and Christian could see in his eyes that it didn't really matter what he'd done, or how many excuses he had, or how many witnesses there might be to his good character. Rollo was going to get even for the incident with Meg in the kitchen.
"He wasn't mauling me!" Marigold exclaimed, stamping her foot.
"That's what it looked like to me!" Rollo said. "But that's not the real problem here."
"Well, what is?" she asked.
"This man is a traitor, plotting the invasion of the castle."
"What?" Marigold and Christian said in unison.
"He's been seen sending many messages to a confederate across the river. His only purpose in coming to work here has been to report back to his forces how they could breach the walls and capture the kingdom."
"Why, that's total nonsense!" Christian cried. "I don't have any forces."
"Total nonsense," Marigold repeated. "You saw me touching him. You know I can tell what he's thinking, and nothing like that was in his mind."
"I'm just following my orders, Your Highness," Rollo said. "I'm sure you'll get a chance to have your say at his trial. You, too," he threw in Christian's direction. "Before they hang you," he muttered. Then, louder, to his soldiers, "Take him away. To the lowest dungeon. And bring me the key."
Christian was dragged away backward, his heels scraping along the flagstones.
Marigold ran after him. "Don't despair," she cried. "He can't do this. I'll get you out in no time."
13
"No time" apparently meant never, Christian thought, languishing in his dank, cluttered dungeon. He didn't know how long he'd been there, for it was hard to judge the passage of time without a window to the outside. The sputtering torch in the wall bracket across from his cell burned all the time.
The cell was spacious, with room for perhaps thirty prisoners. At the moment, it was more than half filled with junk, presumably from the blacksmith's unsuccessful inventions. Christian could see chains and manacles screwed into the walls where unfortunate former inmates had been bound, and was grateful he at least had the freedom to wander around in his dark confinement.
He soon discovered that in even a spacious dungeon there wasn't much wandering to be done. His back against the wall, he slid into a sitting position on the damp floor, and before he knew it, his sleepless night caught up with him and he was out like a log.
He woke to the sound of someone whispering his name.
"Christian!" the voice hissed. "Wake up!"
He jumped to his feet and went to the small barred window in the thick wooden door of the cell. In the dimly lit square was Marigold's face. Christian had never seen a more beautiful sight.
"Hi," he said, ecstatic simply to lay eyes on her.
"Oh, Christian," she wailed. "I've tried to talk to Papa, but he's so fuddled I can only assume that my mother has drugged him to keep him from making any trouble until after this awful wedding's over. Maybe she's been drugging him for a long time, which is why he's seemed so ill and old."
"Then save yourself," Christian said decisively. "Forget about me. I'll think of something. But you've got to get out of here. You can't marry Magnus. You can't."
"I'm being watched all the time now," Marigold said. "There are two guards at either end of the corridor right now, and they'll escort me back to my rooms. Then my maid
s will watch me, with guards at the doors and windows. The only way I could get out of here would be if I had wings."
"But they're letting you come see me," he said. "Why?"
"I suppose they're hoping you'll tell me about your plot to overthrow the king, or whatever crazy charges they've trumped up against you. If they can get you to confess, they won't even have to bother with a trial."
"There is no plot, you know that. I was just sending p-mail to Ed across the river."
"I do know that. I haven't doubted you for a minute."
"We have two more days before the wedding. Maybe I can think of something. And even if I can't, as long as you can come to see me here, I'll die happy."
"Oh, don't talk like that." Marigold's eyes swam with tears.
He put his hands over hers where they gripped the bars, and squeezed. "We have to be realistic. But let's not cry yet."
"Princess!" one of the guards called. "Your time's up. You have to go now."
He squeezed her hands again. "Come back," he whispered.
"I will." Then she was gone.
Christian slumped to the floor, completely out of ideas just when he was most desperate for a good one.
He realized that he'd dozed again when he was awakened by a terrible racket coming down the corridor. Christian couldn't distinguish a single word of the shouts and the clamor of many voices that rang off the stone walls. And he thought he heard dogs barking.
There was a rattle of keys. The cell door was flung open and a tumble of flailing bodies was hurled inside. Christian pressed himself against the wall to avoid being struck by flying humanity while noting that apparently Rollo didn't have the only key. The whizzing bodies hit the ground with a crash followed by grunts and yips and groans. What in the world kind of creatures were in here now? Christian wondered with trepidation.
The heap on the floor sorted itself out into three distinct shapes, two of which launched themselves directly at him. At the moment of impact, Christian discerned that they were—Bub! And Cate! And behind them, brushing himself off, was Ed!