Cinder-Ugly

by Laura Strickland

  “We thought we saw fire there,” I replied carefully. “And the north wall had crumbled. We do not know if King Rupert and his family survived.” I widened my eyes in what I hoped passed for innocence. “You do not know?”

  Sir Rand shook his head. “Yours are the first words we have had of this.” He rubbed his rather long chin. “I will have to inform the King. Meanwhile I suppose you request sanctuary?”

  “Yes, sir, please,” Markka said.

  He eyed us unhappily. “Five dependents. The kingdom of Khett, I will have you know, is not a charity. I hope you come prepared to work.”

  “As always,” I agreed.

  ****

  We never did achieve an audience with the King. I knew that had I spoken the truth of my identity, I’d have been conducted to him in a moment. But revealing my identity exposed Octavius to risk. So though I ached to throw myself on King Edmund’s mercy and demand to know whatever he learned of the situation in Burgendy and most of all whether Rupert still lived as a prisoner or otherwise, I did not dare.

  Markka and I, with the children, were given berths in a rooming house, a grim and lowly place run by an aging widow. She accepted us grudgingly and greeted us with the words, “I hope them children don’t cry much. It’ll disturb the clientele.”

  The clientele consisted of an unsavory and rather unfortunate sampling of Khett’s poorest citizens. Markka and I found ourselves living in a garret, and when whatever stipend Sir Rand had given Mrs. Flick ran out, we worked to earn our beds.

  I found myself back in the kitchen, working among the ashes once again.

  Mrs. Flick needed the assistance. She ran the house by herself with the help of one idiot lad who barely understood what was said to him. At first Markka and I took turns minding the children, but even having been wed to a soldier, Markka’s skills in the kitchen did not match my own.

  My abilities at the hearth returned to me swiftly, as if they’d never left, which perhaps they hadn’t. Heaven knew my stint as Queen had been short enough. Mrs. Flick professed herself happy with the skills Cook had taught me and settled into calling me Miss Cinders.

  We got what news we could from gossip, and that mostly overheard in the dining room. Mrs. Flick’s guests, as I say, came and went. I took to leaving the door to the kitchen ajar, stretched my ears, and learned what I could.

  Gossip being gossip, I did not know what to believe.

  They said everyone in Burgendy was dead, from the rats in the cellars to the King, as they put it. Burned to death. Stabbed. Tortured. Heads cut off. Everyone had a different story. None of them lent me much hope. I cried a thousand tears into the ashes, salting Mrs. Flick’s food with them. I raged and prayed and trembled, all with the blank face the landlady liked to see. My time of servitude in Mother’s kitchen stood me in good stead.

  At night, during my brief moments of rest, I cuddled Octavius in my arms and, sleepless, imagined a hundred scenarios. All returned always to one truth: they must be dead, every one. Else why would they not escape the castle, the city? Why not send for help?

  My heart grieved for Rupert and the Dowager, for my close acquaintances—there were those for whom I cared, such as Rellison. I grieved for a life gone and the hope of regaining it.

  If Burgendy had indeed fallen and Ortis lay in possession of the kingdom, what would he do? I pondered that long as well, because what he might do governed what I should. Had he any notion the Crown Prince—possibly King—of Burgendy survived? What might he do if he did? Hunt us down?

  And if I went and threw myself on King Edmund’s mercy, what would he do? Would he see this as an opportunity to take Ortis on and claim Burgendy for himself? Would he, too, want wee Octavius eliminated?

  I might take that risk on my behalf—never on that of my son.

  So the days crawled by, and winter—our old ally and defender—closed in for a vicious last showing. It snowed hard, the drifts filling the streets, and the wind howled like a mob of marauders. In fact sometimes I roused from my sleep with my heart pounding, thinking the north wall had fallen again.

  I would lie there, remembering the expression in Rupert’s green eyes the last time I saw him—fearful, protective, and so loving.

  So we languished in obscurity, with no hope of forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Cinders, look lively! Stop with your moping and moaning, girl. Do you think I pay you to stand staring at the fire?”

  Mrs. Flick did not, in fact, pay me. We worked for our keep and that of the children. But I nodded humbly.

  “And make sure you keep those brats quiet until your sister gets back from market.”

  All three babes were, in fact, tucked into the corner, none of them fussing. But Mrs. Flick whacked me on the shoulder with a ladle in passing.

  I sighed. At that moment it seemed my life had brought me in a circle. Save for Octavius’s existence, the days spent with Rupert might have been nothing more than a fevered dream.

  Markka returned soon enough, her cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. Without shedding her cloak, she edged up to me. “Sister, word is all over the market…”

  “Neither do I pay you to gossip.” Mrs. Flick struck Markka across the back of the head. “Give me the basket.”

  Markka handed it over, her excitement contagious. “But Mistress Flick, everyone in town is saying—word has come from Burgendy.”

  “No.” I breathed it between parted lips as hope and dread drenched me by turns. “What word?”

  Even Mrs. Flick stopped to listen.

  But Markka shook her head. “No one seems to be sure. Just that a small delegation came to see King Edmund. They arrived on horseback, so swaddled against the cold no one could identify them.”

  Rupert, I thought. And then: No, don’t be foolish, and don’t long for the impossible.

  “It might be a delegation from King Ortis,” Mrs. Flick proposed. “Everyone in the former kingdom of Burgendy has been conquered.”

  I knew that to be the accepted premise. But Markka wanted to argue it. “Still, Mistress Flick, should you hear anything…”

  “Such as?”

  “News of anyone looking for us—”

  “That’s right, you had people there, didn’t you?” Mrs. Flick sniffed. “I dare say the likes of you two have no importance to anyone left alive.”

  Or far too much importance for our safety.

  ****

  I had no sleep that night, but next day life went on just as it had, me working among the cinders, Markka minding the children and lending a hand where she could. Since Mrs. Flick needed nothing from the market, she did not send Markka out, and no word came by other means. Mrs. Flick’s boarders brought no gossip—at least none that I heard through the kitchen door—and the spark of hope in my heart died to almost nothing.

  Day after day dragged past so. I do not mind admitting I wept in my corner by the fire and repeated over and over again that if a party had indeed come from Burgendy, it must be Ortis’s men bent on negotiating with King Edmund.

  My husband must be dead.

  Then, on a bright, cold morning, Mrs. Flick sent Markka to the market once again. Before she left, Markka whispered to me, “I will not come back until I learn something.”

  She did not return for several hours. Mrs. Flick complained, then raged and took her annoyance out on me, busy with both my kitchen chores and minding the children.

  But when Markka at last arrived, she came with her face alight. Leaving the yard door open, she rushed straight to me, ignoring Mrs. Flick’s presence.

  “Majesty—”

  “What did you call her?” Mrs. Flick demanded sharply.

  “Sister. There are men, two of them—”

  “Shut that door! Do you think I want the world peering into my kitchen?”

  Markka hastened to obey, but before she did I caught a hint of the soft air. Spring. Was our terrible winter at an end?

  Markka grasped my hands and looked into my eyes.
“Cindra, I have learned that only two men came from the kingdom of Burgendy, one older and one younger. Nobody seems to know just who they are, but they’ve been to see Kind Edmund, and they are said to be searching for a woman.”

  I stared at her like the dense, stupid creature I’d become, nothing more than an obedient drudge. Even my hope refused to stir…much.

  She jiggled my hands. “They have been everywhere, asking. They must come here, we must assure it…”

  Mrs. Flick, her features heavy with a frown elbowed in. “Looking for a woman? What mad tale is this? What woman?”

  Markka turned bright eyes on Mrs. Flick. “The Queen of Burgendy.” Markka waved a hand. “She is here.”

  “What?” Mrs. Flick began to laugh, a harsh, rusty sound seldom heard. “Here, where?”

  Markka touched my shoulder. “This is the Queen of Burgendy.”

  Mrs. Flick turned and surveyed me, head to foot. I knew how I must appear with my hair—never my best feature—straggling down my back, my worn dress covered with ashes, and my feet wrapped in rags.

  “This?” Mrs. Flick repeated. “This ugly thing is the queen of nothing, save the cinders. Get to work and mind those brats unless you wish to feel the weight of my hand. And, girl, stop telling wild stories.”

  For once Markka refused to back down. “I tell no tales, Mistress Flick.”

  “Just gossip you’ve heard in the market.”

  “Yes! Should the men come here, you must let them see Cindra. You cannot keep her shut away in this kitchen.”

  “I will do nothing of the kind. She is a servant.”

  “She is wife to King Rupert, if he still lives.”

  “No one in Burgendy has survived, stupid girl, save possibly these two men of whom you speak.”

  “Nay, but listen, Mistress. It’s said they look for a woman with a babe.”

  My knees threatened to give way beneath me; for the first time Mrs. Flick hesitated. Her gaze darted to the children.

  Markka turned to me. “Tell her, Majesty, tell her.”

  I parted my lips; words would not come. What if these were not Rupert’s but Ortis’s men after all, seeking to find and eliminate the Crown Prince? What if I endangered Octavius?

  Mrs. Flick turned hard eyes on me. “She is too stupid to speak; she is surely too stupid to be a queen. And too ugly. Get to work, both of you.”

  Markka made so bold as to touch Mrs. Flick on the arm. “But should these men come to your door, please—”

  Mrs. Flick drew away, sneering. “And how shall I know them?”

  “Folk in the market say one of them carries a shoe.”

  “A shoe! Now I know you are mad.” Mrs. Flick clouted Markka in the side of the head.

  Anger flared in Markka’s eyes. I could only wish for her courage, but that which I’d possessed as Rupert’s wife—which had got me through the terror of the tunnel—seemed to have deserted me. I had reverted to the cowed creature who’d lived beneath my mother’s heel.

  We got to work, both of us, but I whispered to Markka as soon as I dared, “A shoe? Whatever can it mean?”

  ****

  We found out soon enough. Markka snuck out early the next morning, slipping through the kitchen door, which was strictly forbidden unless Mrs. Flick sent one of us.

  I arose as always, tucked the babes into their corner, and got to work with a will, hoping to avert Mrs. Flick’s anger. But when she came into the kitchen and did not see Markka, she demanded, “Where is your sister?”

  I looked up at her and lied, “Not well. In the privy, I think.”

  “Wasting time, you mean. She’s become a slacker. You will have to work twice as hard.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Flick.”

  “Our guests will want their breakfast soon. I expect the food on the table in ten minutes. And keep those children quiet.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Flick.”

  The woman left the kitchen, and Markka burst in. She seized hold of my shoulders with both hands. “Majesty, Majesty!”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Her eyes blazed. “The story is true. I saw the two men, though only from a distance. Yet—” She broke off before resuming, “They go from house to house. I begged all who would listen to direct them here.”

  “What—?”

  “I bid them know they might, beneath this roof, find what they sought.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “Markka! You may have just condemned Octavius to death.”

  “Or restored to him his rightful place. Majesty, dear friend…” Her eyes flooded with tears. “Since we’ve been here I have watched you change from a graceful, confident woman to…this! A drudge among the cinders. You must find your courage. You must take a chance.”

  “And if they are Ortis’s men? If they snatch Octavius from my arms?”

  “Believe. Have faith. They will not.”

  I bent my head and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Those who tell the story have some parts of it right. Of course, it being a tale meant for entertainment, they seek to beautify everything.

  They tell of a prince traveling from house to house carrying a crystal slipper. Can you imagine such a thing? What woman, however delicate, would dare to wear a shoe made of glass, for fear of breaking it and cutting her foot to shreds?

  But yes, the men did come looking. And they came with a shoe.

  I remained working hard among the cinders until I heard a commotion from the front part of the house. By then, it must have been late afternoon. The dinner dishes were all washed, and I’d finished paring and chopping the vegetables for supper.

  I could almost hear Cook say, “No time for resting, Cinders! Step lively. In a kitchen there’s always work to be done.”

  I remember straightening my aching back and thinking how weary I felt—tired enough, in truth, to die. I could not think of myself, though. Octavius alone mattered.

  The clamor out front caught my ear then, and raised voices, one of which sounded like Markka’s. But Markka had taken the children up to the garret for their naps.

  Fear, trepidation, and curiosity made me tiptoe to the kitchen door and push it open. The voices came clearer: Markka and Mrs. Flick arguing.

  “You must let them in.”

  “I must do nothing of the kind.”

  “They are permitted by King Edmund to see every woman of the town, should they request it. They have requested!”

  “Get back to your work, stupid girl.”

  I crept down the hallway but a few steps. Now I could see them standing face to face in front of the closed front door.

  “Let them in or I will report you to the authorities.”

  As might be expected, Mrs. Flick promptly struck out. Markka fell to the floor with a cry.

  Mrs. Flick turned and saw me then. “You, drudge, back to the kitchen.”

  Drudge? Me? Once, yes, I had been. Once I was the girl who worked among the ashes, too ugly to lift her eyes and look anyone in the face.

  Now I was—servant, yes. Mother to a Prince. Beloved of Rupert.

  Beloved.

  That thought gave me back the courage I seemed to have left beyond the walls of my kitchen prison. Instead of retreating back to the ashes, I went forward and, walking like a woman in a dream, pushed past Mrs. Flick.

  Accompanied by her protests and abuse, I hauled open the door.

  Too late. The men had already turned away. Two of them, yes, but I saw only their backs—one taller than the other, one aged, with whitened hair. They wore decent, ordinary clothes and…

  Hearing the door open, the shorter of the two turned around.

  My gaze fell first on the battered shoe in his hands. No crystal slipper, no, but one that had been worn much, scorched among the cinders, and nearly rubbed through. One stained by the dirt of the tunnel and molded to the shape of my foot.

  I will remember until I die the moment I raised my eyes to his face. How long had it been? He looked as old and over-thin a
nd worn as the object in his hands. Such an ordinary face to contain my world, all save those bright green eyes, one marked by a livid scar.

  I squealed like a creature gone mad—barely a human sound—and threw myself into his arms. For an instant nothing else existed, not the past or future, not even Octavius, for whom I’d suffered so much—just the sensation of belonging that flowed between us and his arms clutching me tight. I might have stayed so forever, but Rupert at least remembered our son.

  Into my ear he said, “Octavius?”

  I drew away just far enough to look at him again. Real. Here. I smiled. “He’s safe. Upstairs sleeping.”

  “My Queen,” said the second man, and I turned to look at him in astonishment. Rellison—with tears in his eyes. “I am gratified beyond expression to see you.”

  Behind me, Mrs. Flick cleared her throat. Craning my neck, unwilling to let go of my husband, I saw she and Markka stood side by side in the doorway, Mrs. Flick staring, Markka with her face alight.

  “Who do you think you are?” Mrs. Flick demanded of Rupert. “Unhand that girl. She is my servant.”

  Rupert drew himself up before giving a precise bow. “I am Rupert, King of Burgendy. And, my good woman, you are mistaken. This is my wife, the Queen.”

  I will not say Mrs. Flick’s expression was worth all I’d suffered, but it did come close.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hours later, when some of the excitement died down, once Rupert had been reunited with Octavius and Robin and we’d retired to the guest chamber in King Edmund’s palace, he and I at last had a chance to speak together.

  Rupert had a thousand questions, as did I. In all that time we’d thrown them at one another blindly, without opportunity to answer. Also in all that while, he’d barely let go of me or I of him, performing what tasks were needed with fused hands.

  Not till nightfall did we stand looking at Octavius asleep in a clean cot, the world at last slowing enough for us to catch up.

  “What happened in Burgendy?” I asked. “I confess, I feared you all dead.”