by Bonnie Dee
He squeezed her elbow, and she stopped walking and waited, dying to look up and see the king. She listened to the soft pad of royal footsteps on the rich carpet as he walked toward her and stopped in front of her. Should she curtsy now or wait for him to acknowledge her first? She couldn’t remember.
A white-gloved hand reached out, took hold of her chin and tilted her face. Pale gray eyes looked down a long, narrow-bridged nose into her eyes. “My Lord, she really is a beauty, isn’t she? But about this other thing, do you really believe it, Wallace?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty. It sounds highly suspect, but there’s no harm in testing her.”
“Quite true.” The king released her chin and stepped back. She risked another glance, taking in his high forehead, fair hair pulled back into a neat queue, his long, angular face, the jewel encrusted lapels of his jacket—a trifle showy, but then a king could wear what he liked.
Gwyneth took the opportunity to curtsy.
“You’re a very lovely girl, Gwyneth,” King Midas addressed her at last. “I certainly hope your father’s telling the truth about this fairy blessing or whatever it is because I should sorely hate to cleave that pretty yellow head from that creamy white neck. It would be rather like decapitating a buttercup. Flowers were made to be enjoyed, not destroyed, and you are a rare and exquisite blossom, which I should enjoy inhaling deeply in the future.”
She had no idea how to reply. A threat, a compliment and a suggestive comment all combined? There was no response she could give, and so she remained silent.
“Is there anything you’d like to say, Buttercup?” the king continued. “A confession, perhaps, or maybe just a salutation.”
Good God, was he giving her a chance to make an excuse and win her freedom? Should she tell him everything right now and beg for her father’s life and her own? But what if it was a trick and he had them executed anyway? If she could prolong this situation until the end of tonight, perhaps her father, at least, would have a chance to make an escape.
“I’m deeply honored to meet you, Your Highness.” She could barely speak above a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “As for the claims about my beauty or my abilities, I cannot speak to either topic without appearing vain or proud. It is for others to say whether they find me beautiful, and for time to tell whether I can perform up to expectations.”
There. That would have to do. Neither an admission of guilt nor a claim to have abilities she didn’t possess.
“I shall look forward to talking with you more, little Buttercup.” The handsome king smiled as if he’d never mentioned possibly killing her. “For now, you shall be given dinner while a room full of straw is prepared for you.”
Straw. Gwyneth swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She’d never have imagined that simple word could strike terror in her heart. She curtsied again before backing out of the room and away from the king’s presence.
When the door had closed behind her, the steward seized her arm once more and propelled her along the hallway. He took her to a formal dining room where a single place setting graced one end of a long table.
After she was seated, a series of servants with silver dishes offered her delicacies which she refused despite the rumbling of her stomach. She was too anxious to choke down food.
“You really should eat something,” the steward said. “This may be your last meal.”
Gwyneth glanced up sharply. He must know her father’s story was a lie. Perhaps both he and the king were having a joke at her expense. It would explain their sly words and arch tones. They were merely making a game for themselves. Playing with her like a cat played with a mouse before killing it.
She straightened her shoulders and firmed her chin. “I’m ready now. Take me to the room and we’ll find out if I can perform the task you’ve set for me.”
Gwyneth managed to keep up her brave front as he marched her along the hallway and down a flight of stairs to a subterranean series of chambers. She showed no expression as a soldier opened the door and escorted her into a room so full of straw the dust floating in the air choked her and made her sneeze. She bit her trembling lower lip and kept her face still as she regarded a large spinning wheel standing in the center of bales of straw, and she shed not a tear as she faced Steward Wallace one last time.
“Good luck, my girl. I fear you’re going to need it.” He smiled at her with perhaps a touch of sympathy before walking from the room.
The door slammed shut behind him. There was a clang of metal on metal as the bolts shot home. She was locked into a windowless room with no hope of escape.
Gwyneth walked over to the spinning wheel, touched the sharp point of the spindle, then set the empty wheel turning. The wooden axle creaked as the wheel spun around. She wandered over to one of the piles of loose straw, conveniently pulled from a bound bale for her use, and picked up a handful.
The stiff yellow stalks sifted through her fingers and fell to the floor. Her father was such a fool. If a person were to spin any grass into golden thread, it should be hay, not straw. Hay was much more pliable.
The ridiculous thought seized hold of her, and she began to laugh. She pressed her hands over her mouth to hold back her laughter, but it burst through. She laughed and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Then she sank onto the little stool facing the spinning wheel and sobbed until her breath hitched in her chest.
Oh, God, please, God, I haven’t asked you for anything since the night my mother died. You couldn’t spare her then. But will you spare me now? Please, help me. Do something to save me. Send me a miracle.
There was no miracle. Why would there be? Why would God vindicate her father’s barefaced lie? It wasn’t as if he’d made his ridiculous claim through any motive purer than plain greed.
Gwyneth wiped her eyes on her borrowed sleeve and straightened. It wasn’t her nature to give in, and now that she’d wept out her tension and despair at the impossibility of her task, she decided to give it a go.
She stood and dragged a bound bale of straw closer to the wheel and sat to begin. She ignored the horrible noise the spinning wheel made and tried to concentrate. She tried to wish magic into her tingling fingers, gold into the dull, dead straw. She tried praying while she spun. But no determination in the world could accomplish the impossible and, as time wore on, despair began to rise once more.
She had no idea of the time. She seemed to have been there for hours, futilely spinning straw into thinner strands of straw by the light of the single lantern. Her hands hurt, her back ached and she imagined the sun rising in the sky. The last sunrise of her life, and she wouldn’t even see it.
Tears prickled her eyelids. As panic began to rise once more, she got up and ran to the door, testing the security of the bolts. Surely there was a way out of here. Why had she not just admitted to the king that she couldn’t do this? So what if they’d killed her? At least she’d have been spared this night of awful anticipation.
The door wouldn’t budge, even when she pounded it with her fists and threw her entire body against it. Leaving it, she felt her way around all four solid walls. No hint of a hidden door met her questing hands. In desperation, she began to move the straw around the room in order to scrutinize every inch of the stone floor.
There was no escape. She’d always known it, just as she’d always known there was no earthly chance of spinning straw into gold.
“I always took my life for granted,” she whispered aloud, sinking into the useless straw. “I never realized how much I wanted it… Not just my silly dreams of a beautiful future with some wonderful husband, but even the everyday drudgery. I’d give anything, just to have life.”
She closed her eyes as the silent tears poured down her cheeks, giving in at last to total despair, total loss.
A loud crash like thunder exploded through the sealed room. Gwyneth jumped, her eyes snapping open. Smoke billowed around her, emitting some powerful, sulfurous stench. Astonished, she gazed into it, an
d after an instant made out the tall, cowled figure of a man.
He stood perfectly still, the cowl pointing toward her. His voice seemed to echo, as if from some deep cavern. “Did you say anything?”
Chapter Two
Curiously, Gwyneth felt no real fear, perhaps because she was too stunned, perhaps because she’d already sunk so low. Somewhere, she realized she should be very frightened, that danger of kinds she couldn’t even imagine surrounded the black hooded figure emerging from the smoke.
But mostly, she was aware of relief. “There is a way out!” she exclaimed.
“There is always a way out,” her visitor answered. His voice was deep, low, almost sepulchral, sending shivers down her spine. “It is just a matter of finding it. And being prepared to take it.”
He moved through the smoke and bent toward her, stretching down his hand. It, too, was black, encased in a long gauntlet. Dazed, Gwyneth took his fingers before she meant to and was drawn to her feet. He smelled of rich earth and smoke. His hand seemed to engulf hers, burning her skin even through the thickness of his glove. And yet the effect was not unpleasant. Perhaps because he’d given her hope.
She peered into the darkness of his cowl. Somewhere in its depths, two eyes glittered, but she could make out nothing more. He stood still and silent, not yet releasing her hand. She had the feeling she was being assessed. Well, no one had ever complained about her looks.
She drew in her breath. “I’ll take it,” she said fervently. “If you would be so good as to show me the way.”
He released her hand, turning his head to look around the straw-filled room. “What exactly is your problem?” he inquired.
“I’m locked in. I can’t get out. And in the morning, the king will execute me.”
The cowl returned to face her. “Does he think you’re some kind of animal, to surround you with bales of straw?”
A breath of laughter escaped Gwyneth, just when she thought she’d never laugh again. “Believe it or not, I’m supposed to spin this straw into gold. If I can’t—and obviously I can’t!—I am to die.”
“So you want a way out. And would do anything for life.”
“It will be a difficult life,” she acknowledged. “I’ll have to run away, go into hiding with nothing, perhaps try to escape to another country, but I’m a hard worker and will soon pay my way.”
“A hard worker,” he repeated, and she thought he was studying her borrowed dress and jewels. Once more, he reached out and took her hand, turning up the rough palm and fingers. Ashamed, she tugged it free. “You are a woman of contradictions. Fortunately, you intrigue me.”
“Then you’ll show me the way out?” Gwyneth said eagerly.
“I’ll show you a way out, if you wish it. But you must be aware, there is always a price.”
I’d give anything…
She swallowed. “I’d give you this necklace, these rings, but the jewelry isn’t mine. It belongs to the king.”
“I don’t want his jewels.”
“Then what will you take?”
The cowl moved. Two gleaming eyes held her gaze. She thought she could see a flash of teeth, the movement of lips. “For turning all this straw into gold that you might go free and return to your life?”
Gwyneth’s mouth fell open. “You can’t do that. No one can. It was just a silly, ill-conceived boast of my father’s!”
“But if I could, would you want it?”
“Is that my only way out? To perpetuate the lie?”
“Can you think of another?”
“I could escape the way you came in.”
“Where I go, you would not wish to follow.”
“I’m tough,” she pointed out eagerly. “And spry.”
He seemed to be considering her desire to go with him, then suddenly shook his head. “I would not take you under these circumstances. Besides, is the life of a fugitive so attractive?”
“No,” she admitted, longing with unexpected strength to scrub some more wren droppings off her father’s porch. She smiled a little tentatively. “The truth is, I doubt your ability to spin straw into gold. I don’t see how it can be done.”
“I’ll show you. For…” The whiteness of teeth gleamed again. “For a kiss.”
She blinked. “A kiss?”
“A kiss.”
“But I don’t know you,” she blurted.
His breath came out in a rush. He might have been laughing. “I suspect that by the time you’ve spun all this straw into gold, you’ll imagine you know me well enough to give me your lips for a few moments. Is it a huge price to pay for your life?”
“N-no,” she admitted.
“Then what’s the matter? Haven’t you been kissed before?”
“No,” she said again. “I slapped the last boy who tried.”
“Well, you can slap me, too, if you want, but I will insist on the kiss.”
Gwyneth became aware that the butterflies in her stomach were far from unpleasant. She admitted to curiosity, about kisses in general and this mysterious stranger’s in particular. However, though she may have been innocent in practice, she was far from naive in theory.
“Just a kiss?” she demanded.
The cowl moved, as if he was silently laughing at her again. “I won’t ravish you, if that’s what you mean. I ask for a kiss, and that is exactly what I will take. On your lips,” he added, as though to quell any further doubts.
Gwyneth’s body began to flush. She’d never imagined he meant anything else, but now that the idea was in her mind, it ran riot. Kisses on her throat and shoulders, on her breasts, which had begun to ache inexplicably.
“Well?” her visitor prompted.
She blinked to dispel the unwanted images in her mind, and took a deep breath. “Yes, please,” she said.
“Good.” He swung away from her. “Then collect a good armful of straw and sit at your wheel. You have a lot of spinning to do.”
“Sir, I’ve already tried,” she protested, disappointed at this pointless instruction.
He sighed, and Gwyneth caught a more powerful whiff of his peculiar, smoky scent. “You have nothing to lose,” he reminded her. “Not even a kiss. Unless the straw becomes gold.”
Whenever he said the word “kiss”, something seemed to jump in her stomach. It was too unfamiliar to be recognized, but she thought it might actually have been excitement. How could a kiss excite her when her life still hung in the balance?
So, obediently, she went and picked up an armful of straw and sat at the wheel.
“Begin,” her visitor commanded. “Don’t be too dainty. We haven’t got much time.”
“Is it dawn?” she asked, alarmed.
“Not yet. Begin.”
This time, the wheel didn’t grind and protest. It ate up the straw like wool. And before her eyes it spun into a thin filament of gold. Stunned, she stopped and touched it. Cold and hard. Her lips parted. Her eyes turned up to the cowled figure who stood at her shoulder.
For the first time since he’d appeared, rationality began to poke at her stunned, exhausted brain. There was no way into this room. She couldn’t leave with him. Unless she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming, he’d given her the impossible ability to turn straw into gold at a spinning wheel.
“Who are you?” she whispered. What are you? Politeness prevented the second question from forming, but he answered neither. Merely, his lips moved inside the cowl, tempting her with the desire to see them, to see all of his face instead of tantalizing glimpses of tiny shadowed parts of it.
“Continue,” he said.
She sat among a growing pile of golden thread. The wheel spun as she shoved handfuls of straw through, faster and faster. It seemed no finesse was necessary. It just had to go through the motions of being spun, because that was what she’d promised to do. The strange man who made it happen merely watched her from a few feet away, where he sat on one of the remaining piles of straw. Mostly, he didn’t speak. Nor did he trouble to move the straw for
her. As if it had to be all her work. Apart from the magic, of course. The funny thing was, his silent presence soothed her. Perhaps it was just comparison with the terrible loneliness and despair of her first few hours in this room.
And then he spoke. “What is your name?” His deep, dark voice startled her so that she lost the rhythm of her spinning and turned toward him with a jerk.
“Gwyneth,” she said breathlessly as she pushed a pile of straw toward the wheel. Apart from where he sat, this was the last bundle. If she wasn’t dreaming.
“Gwyneth,” he repeated, as if savoring the word on his tongue. He seemed to like it. Her skirts brushed against his legs as she shoved the straw across the floor. He had good legs, she noted inanely. Long, with muscled thighs inside their black, silky casing. He wore black, shining boots that stretched over his knees. “Gwyneth, why do you wear the king’s jewels?”
“They dressed me like a doll to meet him.”
“Why?” he asked again.
She flopped back onto the stool and seized a handful of straw. Her other hand was already spinning the wheel. “I suppose because he doesn’t like to sully his audience chamber with ugliness.”
“Are you ugly without jewels?”
“I don’t think so. But my dress—my own dress—is ugly.”
“You are not a lady of the court.”
Borrowed clothes and jewels didn’t make her a lady. They never would. She gave a twisted little smile. “How could you tell?”
“I observe. Over the years, I’ve watched, and even talked with, several. You are different.”
“How?” she asked curiously. “My accent? My hands? My manners?”
“Yes.”
Stupid to feel deflated. She stuffed more straw in and spun it wildly.
“Partly,” he added. He no longer sounded quite so certain, causing her to spare a glance at the hidden face. “Your manners are better than theirs. And you are educated.”