Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  The king reiterated his support.

  ‘Objection? Hardly! I would be honoured and thrilled, good fellow.’

  ‘I hear the princess is a keen horsewoman and rides each morning. Where does she usually go?’

  So it was that, when Mirabella arrived in the glade, she was greeted by the sight of Prince Timothy lying under a tree, grinning. Mirabella dismounted and tethered her horse. She was incredibly pleased to see the prince, and she also wanted to give him a right royal blasting. Instead, she lay down on the soft grass beside him. She didn’t ask why he hadn’t met her in the stable, she just returned his smile with a wink. The pair lay on their backs, watching clouds scuttle into fantastic shapes.

  ‘So, would you care to hear about my falcons?’ the prince asked languidly, when he finally spoke.

  ‘Not really. At least, not right now. Perhaps some other time. My cousin Imogen has warned me that once you get onto that topic it is hard to interest you in any other.’

  ‘You really are the most disagreeable, most compelling woman. but you don’t scare me. I was raised on tales of my ancestors. Queen Olive of Norwich, for example, mother of Marquis De La Pasture. When her son was beheaded by the enemy, she drank his blood to rally the troops. As you can see, I come from people of extremely strong mettle.’

  ‘Gadzooks!’ said the princess. She wasn’t exactly sure what the word meant, but she’d always wanted to use it and now seemed to be the right occasion.

  ‘So,’ the prince continued, unfazed by her odd expression. ‘Do you fancy your pretty pageboy, then?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Not in the least,’ Mirabella said indignantly. ‘I can explain —’

  ‘No need. I’d rather hear what can you do that is useful. Can you dig a hole, bake a loaf, plant a flower? Can you deliver a child or milk a cow? Or are you only interested in your own wellbeing?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I seek a wife. Beauty does not interest me, although you are very lovely, I will admit. But beauty fades, and life is longer than that. I need a queen who will help me run my kingdom in new ways, to create a land where all are fairly treated. She’ll need to share the power and the duties of the state, and be familiar with the ways of the world.’

  ‘I could learn to do those things, I’m sure. I don’t think you will find many princesses who are already skilled at them. What I am passionate about is horses. I want to breed them, one day. I admit I’ve not yet learnt to be very interested in people. My horizons will need expanding, in that regard. I could probably get interested in falcons, if the right man taught me about them.’

  ‘I admire your honesty,’ replied the prince. ‘I have never met a maiden with such insight into her own strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Mirabella, who was another person who didn’t believe in beating about the bush, ‘do you want to marry me?’

  The prince took his time replying. He scratched his head solemnly, as if having to think hard about his answer. Then he picked a blade of shivery grass and gently tickled Mirabella’s ankle with it.

  ‘Actually,’ he told her, ‘I do.’

  The Reader

  › Mum says she doesn’t feel like Indian food tonight. Dad suggests a new place called Quesadilla, that serves modern Mexican food. It’s delicious: guacamole, blue corn chips, mango and coriander salsa, grilled tortilla with chicken and cheese in the middle, which is what quesadilla are, I learn.

  ‘We have news,’ Mum announces. They stare at me like two happy chipmunks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dad’s been offered a year’s contract in Chile. We want to go.’

  ‘Just you two?’ I say, my stomach sinking. Everyone has a boarding school fantasy, but I’m not keen on experiencing it for real.

  ‘No, Dafty, all of us. It’ll be a major adventure. If you want to, that is?’

  ‘Yeah, of course I do! But what about school? I mean, I can’t just leave . . .’

  ‘There’s an International school. You’ll have to learn Spanish, though. It’s a biggie so we’ll understand if you need time to think about it, or you don’t want to.’

  I take a deep breath. My tummy is trembly, my head is spinning, but I’m ready for an adventure.

  ‘Hola! Buenos Dias! Enchilada!’ I blurt. ‘What’s not to like?’

  We’re all laughing, and I think Maybe I can get over Dylan. Not everyone has to like me. Things won’t always turn out just the way I want. No doubt the new school will be a bit daunting, but right now everything feels exactly as it is supposed to. All my ducks are in a row and, even though I know they won’t stay there for long, I’m savouring it, being happy, right here and right now, in this restaurant, with my mum and dad and a dob of salsa on my chin.

  THE WEDDING

  CHAPTER

  PRINCE TIMOTHY GAVE Mirabella a gold ring set with an emerald the size of a quail’s egg, which he happened to have in his pocket. Then he returned to his kingdom to make the necessary arrangements.

  That evening, in bed by candlelight, Queen Petronilla and King Harold shared figs, cheddar cheese, and a bottle of claret.

  ‘I pledge to help you more and growl at you less,’ Petronilla murmured, after her second goblet.

  ‘And I, for my part, aim to be a worthwhile king and husband. I’ve been much inspired by hearing Prince Timothy speak of his dreams for the kingdom. He wishes to create equality for all: valets and footmen, grooms and cooks, seamstresses and maids. His vision is for a prosperous land where all may live in harmony.’

  ‘What an extraordinary idea!’

  ‘Perhaps, but one worthy of the highest consideration, don’t you agree, My Petal?’ The king sighed and continued. ‘I shall miss her, you know, our difficult daughter . . .’

  ‘I will, too, but birds must leave the nest eventually. I think we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves, do you not?’ the queen replied, snuggling down into the royal bed.

  The king couldn’t believe his luck. His daughter marrying a good man of her own choice, and the queen had offered him some rumpty-tumpty!

  The wedding took place on a new moon. Mirabella wore a white silk gown with a beaded bodice, a cascading skirt, and a train of chiffon embroidered with gold thread. She held a bouquet of red rosebuds. A small chamber quartet heralded the bride down the aisle, where Prince Timothy stood, proud in white breeches and a red satin waistcoat. The queen dabbed her eyes, and the king gave a sigh of relief. The prince and princess exchanged vows under an orange blossom bower; servants and noblemen alike threw confetti of delphinium petals. Then the merriment began. Scented candles lit the way for the bridal waltz, and jasmine cast sexy fragrance into the corners of the night. When the musicians took a break, an accordion player in a black hat played gypsy tunes, wild and free. Dirk, the beekeeper, became jug-bitten on blood-and-thunder, a mixture of port wine and brandy. He grabbed Mrs Blossom and called her My Beautiful Mountain. ‘You’re drunk as a wheelbarrow!’ Mrs Blossom gasped, but rested in his embrace, bold as a zinnia. Elda got tiddly on shandy gaff, a blend of ale and ginger beer. She took an unruly giggling fit, and had to be given a peppermint by Arlo to calm her down.

  As for the food! You’ve never seen anything like it! Trout with dill, pigeon baked with rum and raisins, a goose with a duck baked inside it and a tiny quail baked inside that, chickens stuffed with sausage and chestnuts, vegetables roasted with rosemary and honey, creamy custards flavoured with nutmeg, pyramids of fruit, and crystal jellies perfumed with rosewater, all washed down with elderflower champagne and finest ale. The wedding gifts included one hundred and seven pairs of sheets, one hundred and fifty tablecloths, one hundred doves, three gilded carriages, two fine black horses, a host of hideous ornaments and snuff boxes, and a partridge in a pear tree. Tarquin gave them a country estate, Swythyn of Alderly sent a gift of three pigs. Two of the groomsmen had to be disciplined by the head butler, due to drunkenness that led to food throwing, and a jolly good time was had by all.

  W
hen the bridal couple had departed for their honeymoon, the King and Queen went wearily to bed. Arabella dozed happily on a satin cushion besides them. Most of the guests had left in their carriages but a few late-night revellers continued to quaff ale, sharing bawdy tales and the last of the sweetmeats.

  Rolf and Glory snuck away to the stargazing turret. The sky was a milky muddle of stars; the air was warm upon their skin. The pair sat together peacefully, enjoying the balmy night. Rolf took Glory’s hand.

  ‘Our wedding shall be a much simpler affair,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Glory smiled and squeezed his hand. And so it was agreed, without fuss or fanfare. Each knew they were meant to be together, there was no need for folderol. Life was a glorious messy mystery that tumbled all around, abundant with ducks and herbs, moons and horses, walnuts and libraries and slippers. It had its own weathers and ways. It couldn’t be bought or sold, bartered or fully understood, and for Rolf and Glory there was no doubt that they would spend the entirety of it together. The deal was sealed between them, not with a fancy ring but with the sweetest of kisses, as the darkness faded and the new light dawned.

  A few days later, the queen offered Glory the chance to visit her mother. Elda and Mrs Blossom took a break from shelling peas and came into the yard to wave goodbye. Rolf produced two conker nuts, a rock embedded with a fossilised fern, and a wooden top, to give her brothers. Miss Oleander smiled and handed Glory more gifts: some elderflower cordial, a tincture for Rosamund, and a leather medicine box containing willow bark for headaches, calendula for bruising, tansy for fevers, and peppermint for indigestion.

  ‘You won’t need that with my food,’ bellowed Mrs Blossom, thrusting a box of victuals into Mr Hobb’s arms for them to share on the journey.

  Glory departed with great elation, but the road moved slow as the carriage bounced and bumped its way along. She wanted to be there and back again, all in the same moment. She missed Rolf already, but she couldn’t wait to see her dear ones and tell them all that had happened at the palace.

  Jakob and Ptolemy were catching frogs for the pure pleasure of letting them go. They were good-natured lads and easy to amuse. Gerard, the carpenter, had given them some wood scraps and a handful of nails. How they loved to hammer. What manner of strange boats they produced, and a creature like a square elephant with leaves for ears. Their mother had tried not to let them see how much she missed Glory, amusing them with tiddlywinks and dominoes, songs and riddles. The daytime was not so bad, for she was fearsome busy, but at night her heart ached for news of her daughter.

  That autumn afternoon, as she made barley soup, Rosamund heard a cacophony of shouting, and rushed out to see what the commotion was. She was greeted by the sight of Mr Hobbs helping Glory down, while Jakob and Ptolemy yelled and leapt about with glee.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl!’

  After the sharing of gifts, the evening meal, and tales of palace life, the excited boys finally fell asleep. Mother and daughter talked long into the night.

  ‘I prayed hard that the curse would be averted. On the night of the full moon, I felt that your life had been saved, but until I saw you with my own eyes I could not be fully reassured.’

  ‘Here I am, all in one piece, as you can see.’

  ‘Will you return to the palace?’

  ‘Yes, Mama. Princess Mirabella asked me to continue as her maid and accompany her to the new kingdom, but I declined. Miss Oleander has offered to train me in the arts of the apothecary. And . . . there is a young man . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said her mother. ‘I thought there might be, by the glow in your cheeks and the sparkle in your eyes. Tell me about him.’

  ‘His name is Rolf. I will bring him to meet you when next I visit.’

  ‘Does he return your love, this young man you speak of?’

  ‘He does, Mama. You’ll find him to be the kindest, most intelligent young man. He works in the kitchen, but one day I think he will be famous, for he is a botanist and a thinker by nature. He knows the names of birds and flowers, the ways of insects, so many interesting things. We wish to marry, but first we must save for a small cottage. We’ll rear pigs for meat and for their joyous grunting; we’ll grow plants for medicine as well as beauty. Perhaps in time we shall raise children, if God is willing.’

  There came no words of reply, but Glory knew her mother’s joy by the light in her eyes.

  In case you’re wondering what happened to the others: Arlo married Victoria, daughter of the blacksmith, and they became one of those couples that bicker about whether something happened on a Tuesday or a Friday. Lonely Jack’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. Reading teacups didn’t pay, so he resorted to more and more nefarious behaviours. He was arrested with stolen gold coins hidden in his beard, and imprisoned for ten long years. Dirk and Mrs Blossom never married, but indulged in generous amounts of cuddling whenever he delivered the honey. Elda was bequeathed a small inheritance from an uncle. She purchased an inn, The Silver Unicorn, which served the best pies in seven counties. Elda never married, believing that it was more hard work than she could be bothered with.

  THE WRITER

  It’s always a bit odd when you finish writing a book. The writer is glad of it though. It’s been a long road of many pages. Now it’s time to send it out into the world, to let it take on a life of its own, unfolding like a lovely paper flower in someone else’s imagination. The writer takes up her pen, pretends it’s an elegant quill, dips it in Mirabella’s golden inkpot, and with a lavish flourish she writes

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  HEARTFELT THANKS TO Sam Bodhi Field for his intelligence and encouragement.

  Much appreciation to Robyn Bett, for giving (and telling) me the story of ‘The Angry Princess’ from The Way of the Storyteller, Ruth Sawyer (Penguin, 1977) and to Bruce Russell, for making the moussaka.

  Warm thanks to Lydia, AKA Tamsin.

  Thank you to Glenda Northey, Greg Ussher and Ella Manaia Ussher for research help.

  Huge thanks to all the fabbo young people who email me, especially Taylor Jane, Jessica Howatson, Mary Scriven, and Madeleine Ballard. You brighten my life. I’ve stolen a thought or a half a line here or there from you. Please take it as a compliment. Also, please don’t sue me. Special thanks to Madeleine Ballard for the acronyms and special days on page 128, and to Jessie Bray Sharpin for her last-minute, serendipitous help with a plot decision and a title.

  The painting described on page 50 is by Hilary Herrmanne, and featured in Inside Out Magazine, ( March/April 2009 ).

  My tea readings were guided by Secrets of Gypsy Fortune Telling by Ray Buckland ( Llewellyn Publishers, Minnesota, 1988 ).