Forced To Kill The Prince

by Hollie Hutchins

  She began, as of the third day, to be kinder and less aloof with her staff. She inquired after their wellbeing, gave them more time for themselves, to pursue their own interests and lives. At first, she acknowledged to herself, this was a conscious effort that she made, but with time it became natural, second nature. And as a result her staff grew to love her, and as they grew to love her, so she grew truly to love them back.

  She did not see Richard. She was not sure why. She thought of him often and she missed him. But some unarticulated, half unconscious fear made her procrastinate, and avoid lingering on any thought of him.

  He could, she told herself, always contact her if he wished to see her. He had not, so no doubt he had at last met some young society woman and fallen in love. No doubt they would get engaged. No doubt they would marry. Though she had decided, and he had agreed, that if she ever married she would marry him.

  Was he in love with her? Was that the thought that she so assiduously attempted to avoid? Had she been cruel to Richard all these years? Had she ignored the good, noble man because she lusted after a beast.?

  She dismissed the thought from her mind over and again, seeking solitude but never able to escape from her own thoughts.

  Three months passed in this manner, and during that time she thought deeply, meditated upon the nature of her feelings and her behaviour, and finally reached a decision. On a bright morning in early June she sat at her bureau and penned a note. She then addressed it to Lord Pastern, Wormholt Square, Mayfair and rang the bell for Smythe.

  “You rang, M’Lady.”

  “Have this note sent round to Lord pastern, Smythe. I shall require an immediate reply, so have the boy wait, would you?”

  * * *

  “Richard, I have absolutely no right to ask you what I am going to ask, and I shall fully understand if you tell me to go and saw my timber. But I have nobody else to ask, and I am in desperate need. So I must ask you.”

  “My dear Emma, I can’t imagine any circumstance in which I would be likely to tell you to amputate your mahogany. If you are in such dire need, I am only sorry you have not come to me sooner.”

  “I’m afraid your kindness makes this no easier. In fact it only makes it harder.”

  “Would you like me to be mean to you, instead, and tell you to go to blazes?”

  She smiled at him and realized it was the first time she had smiled with genuine pleasure in a very long time. She gave a small, pretty laugh and said, “I believe I would, dear Richard!”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded, an uncertain smile on his face.

  “What is this, Emmy? Are you ailing or feverish? Shall I call the doctor?”

  “You are right to tease me. I deserve it. I have not been kind to you, and you deserved better.”

  He frowned.

  “Now this is getting a little serious and if you continue in this vane I shall begin to get worried.”

  She clasped her hands on her lap and looked at him steadily. “Richard, I can’t tell you everything that has happened, but I want you to trust me. Something very peculiar happened to me after that night that we went to the talk at the Victoria and Albert. Do you remember?”

  “Perfectly. You were besotted with that Norwegian bounder.”

  “Be that as it may, the thing is I have come to realize that I have not been a very nice person. I have been self-righteous, ungenerous and unkind. And I need to make amends.”

  “Good lord! What has come over you?”

  “And as part of that making amends, I need to go to Norway, to in the Jotunheimen mountains, to find a cave in the Nibeland Valley. I can’t do it alone. I need the help of somebody whom I can trust.”

  Richard’s face became very serious.

  “You’re looking for this damned Sigurd Dreki, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He was silent for a long time, staring at her face until she looked away. Finally he said, with no trace of factiousness or humour, “You do know, don’t you, Emma, why I never call on you uninvited, and why I never send you invitations?” She didn’t answer. He continued, “You do know, I am sure that you do, that I am in love with you. That I have been in love with you for the last seven years.”

  She stared at her feet and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then you are quite correct. You have no damned right to ask me to help you go and find this man. But nevertheless I will go. Because, as the Bard says, ‘Love doth make fools of us all.’” He stood. “I hade better take my leave, Emma, before I make an even bigger fool of my self. When do we leave?”

  She looked up at him. He saw in her face a torture of guilt and sadness and helplessness. And she in turn saw in his, only compassion and love. She attempted a smile of gratitude and said, “As soon as you are able.”

  Eight

  A frozen wind cut down out of the mountains, which stood vast, ancient and white against the blue sky in the west. They had docked in Oslo a week earlier and driven to Lillehammer. There they had purchased two horses and a pack mule and ridden first west and then northwest towards Beitostølen, where, two days later, they had taken rooms at a small inn and begun their exploration of the area.

  Emma spoke ancient Norse, which she had learnt from a private tutor while studying the Icelandic and Norwegian sagas of the 12th century; and she was somewhat crestfallen when her attempts at conversation and inquiry were met with either confused frowns or gales of hilarity. “My dear Emma,” Richard said to her finally, “It’s as though I were to step into my local watering hole and say to the publican,” and here he adopted the tone and manner of a mediaeval knight, “Greetings, bar-lord, hast thou perchance a pint of goodly ale? For I would verily slack mine thirst this day. Zounds! Mine journey hence from Wormholt Square hath bestowed upon my a mighty weariness.” At this they had both burst out laughing and Richard had astonished her by revealing that he had in fact a passable command of modern Norwegian. “Where on Earth did you learn Norwegian, Richard? I had no idea!” He had smiled at her. “Dearest Emma, there is a great deal you do not know about me.” He had paused then, looking at her with great affection, and added, “You have been so busy on you quests, various, wild and wonderful, you have never seen what was under your pretty nose.” With that, and before she could answer, he had gone off to charm the innkeeper, a statuesque widow in her forties, and elicited from her, among much laughter, that there was no such valley as Nibeland that she had ever heard of, but there was a legend that said there was a cave about five or six miles to the north, as the crow flies, in the mountains above lake Vinstre. The valley was known locally as Tåke Dal: Mist valley. Now, two days after their arrival in Beitostølen, they sat upon their mounts at the crest of a hill and gazed down into a deep basin at the bottom of which a sparkling river opened out into a deep lake upon which still surface the sun shattered its light into a million diamonds, each one a fleeting, transitory gem.

  Beyond, the far flank of the rose steeply into a broad band of dense pine forest, and above that the frozen peak of mount Tåke rose, shrouded, as it apparently always was, in cloud. Beyond that, Mount Galdhøpiggen, where the river had its source, rose magnificent against the sky.

  “Well, here we are, the Misty Valley, at the foot of the Misty Mountain. What say you? Shall we descend, allow the beasts to drink and pasture, have some grub and head back?”

  She nodded and they started their descent towards the sparkling river. As they rode down he turned to her and addressed a question which they had not discussed since that day in Mayfair, when she had asked for his help.

  “Emma, what do you hope to find here?”

  She sighed, aware of not wanting to hurt him, aware also of a growing fondness and tenderness towards him. Was this feeling new, she wondered, or had it always been there, and she had been to arrogant and blind to see it?

  “I am not sure,” she said, somewhat evasively.

  He smiled at her.

  “You don’t need to mollycoddle me, my dear. I know you hope to
find Sigurd Dreki. But that was not really what I meant.”

  She frowned.

  “What then?”

  His horse drew a little closer to hers, so that their legs were almost touching. He was thoughtful, gazing at the forest across the water.

  “I mean, even if we were to find this man, which I have to say, at the moment, does not seem all that likely, what then?” He turned to face her. “You are not actually looking for him, are you? You are hoping that he will give you an answer. I wonder if you even know what the question is.”

  She stared at him, overwhelmed of a sudden by a flood of conflicting emotions. She was astonished at Richard’s insight, astonished that he had seen so clearly what she herself had failed to see, and at the same time infuriated by what she saw then as his impertinence.

  They halted by the side of the lake. He took a roll of blankets from his saddle and laid them out while Emma unpacked their luncheon in silence. Richard tethered the horses and gave them their nosebags, then dropped onto the blanket beside Emma.

  She handed him a cheese and ham sandwich and studied his face a moment as he took it.

  “Richard, I fell very much in love with Sigurd.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “How did you know? You never saw us together.”

  He shrugged and glanced at her. “I could see it in your eyes. Call it male intuition.”

  She frowned. “Anyway, I had some strange experiences. It is very hard to explain and I doubt you would understand even if I did…”

  He interrupted her and there was an edge of irritation to his voice.

  “Emma, my dear, you make all these assumptions about me and you jump to all these conclusions, just as you always have. I was hoping that on this voyage of discovery we have undertaken together, you might begin to see that the vast majority of them were mistaken.” He put down his sandwich and turned to stare at her, allowing his annoyance to show on his face. “Has it ever once occurred to you, that perhaps I do understand, and it is you, in your stubbornness and your – let’s face it – arrogance, who neither sees not understands?”

  Had she not been eating, her jaw would have dropped. But before she could swallow to answer, he pointed past her head at where the ground rose from the river bank towards the hills.

  “You were looking for a cave to explore. There you have one.” He made no effort to hide the irony in his voice. “Do you think it is the Tåke cave, the cave of impenetrable mists?”

  She turned and looked. There, half way up the slope, above a rocky outcrop, was the jagged mouth of a dark cave. A sharp stab of fear and excitement pierced her belly. She had thoroughly scanned the area on their arrival and there had been no cave there. This then was Sigurd’s cave. He was here. She knew it. She could feel him.

  “Richard, you need not come…”

  He stood. “I am sorry, Emma, I know you would like to meet this chap alone, and once we find him, if we do, I shall leave you alone to talk. But I am not letting you go into a dark cave in the middle of the Norwegian wilderness on your own. I simply won’t do it.”

  They left the horses where they were and scrambled up the bank to the mouth of the cave.

  Nine

  It was about ten foot across and some twelve foot in height. It was a tunnel that plunged into the hillside, and into an impenetrable gloom. Richard pulled his flashlight from his canvass bag and they began their descent into the cavern.

  Soon they began to hear the damp, hollow echo of dripping water, and shortly after that the sigh and splash of a stream.

  Emma heard Richard’s voice ahead of her.

  “That must be the river that feeds the lake. You all right, Emma?”

  She nodded, realized he could not see her and said, “Yes.”

  The light from his torch began to take on a strange, hazy quality and she heard his voice, now a little muffled, saying, “Hallo, what’s this now? We seem to be running into some mist… Stay close old girl.”

  The mist grew steadily more dense. Emma picked her way with care among the jagged rocks that formed the floor of the cave, now slick with the moisture from the fog that enveloped them. Ahead of her, just a few feet away, Richard’s dark form moved with care amid a halo of light.

  She said, “Let me catch up with you, Richard.”

  She heard his voice come back, “I’m right here,” but it seemed oddly distant. A Large rock loomed on her left, momentarily obscuring Richard’s form, partly hiding the glow of his flashlight. She picked her way around it. The glow of the torch was still there, but it appeared to be stationary. She said, “Richard…?”

  His voice, disembodied, seemed to come from all directions, “Emma…?”

  She called again, “Richard, I can’t see you. Where are you?”

  “”Emma…? Don’t move. Stay where you are. I’ll retrace my steps…”

  She fought a sinking feeling of fear. “I’m by the big rock. You passed it a second ago on your left…”

  She heard her voice sink among deadened echoes into the thick vapour. There was no reply. She called again, “Richard?” And then, “I can see the glow of your lamp. I am going to walk towards you.”

  He didn’t answer. She waited a moment, but the eminent logic of her own proposition persuaded her in the end to move and she began to inch her way over wet and slimy stones in the direction of the glow of his lamp.

  She did not find him or the flashlight. The passageway narrowed and the sound of the river became louder. Still following the glow, she squeezed between two outcrops of rock and found herself in what appeared to be a large chamber. Here the mist cleared somewhat and she could see on her left, perhaps twenty feet away, a fast-flowing river from which rose tenuous clouds of vapour. And then, as the mist cleared further, she gasped. For piled high on all sides were mountains of gold and jewels of every imaginable description. There were coins, necklaces, torques, bracelets, crowns and coronets, chalices, goblets, plates and platters, swords and daggers, all encrusted with diamonds, rubies and emeralds.

  And lying across the hoard, was the gigantic form of a serpent dragon, his wings furled, his eyes closed.

  She whispered, “Sigurd…” His amber, ophidian eyes opened and he regarded her from where he lay. She said, “It’s me, Emma. I have come searching for you…”

  A deep, rumbling groan escaped from his mouth. He stirred and raised his head. There was a deep sadness in his eyes. She felt a twist of grief in her belly and tears sprang to her eyes. She said, "I realized my mistake, Sigurd. I was vain. I saw only your power, your beauty…” she gave a small laugh and wiped away her tears, “you were magnificent. But I failed to see the…”

  “Humanity?”

  The voice came from beside her. She jumped and stepped away.

  Vordr stood there, leaning on a great, bejewelled sword. He was not in his troll form, but as a man.

  “He has no humanity, wench. You stole it from him when you refused to love him. In your hunger for the flesh, your lust, your carnality…” he was grinning, surveying her body, stripping her naked with his eyes, “you were too vain and too greedy too see the true man. Too late. You come too late. You have sentenced him to another thousand years. You cannot save him now.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe you. My feelings were real. They were hidden, buried, but they were there all along. I just couldn’t see…”

  “You don’t believe me.” He shrugged and sneered. “It makes no difference. He guards the treasure of the people of the mist, but I guard him.”

  He raised his sword and stepped towards her. Over his shoulder she could see the dragon, and the infinite sadness in its eyes.

  Those huge, amber eyes.

  “Seeing,” she said. “It is all about seeing, isn’t it? The valley of mist, the mountain of mist, the people of the mist. The treasure is there to blind us. You, a troll, Sigurd, a dragon. It is all illusion…to stop us from seeing…”

  A terrible grin split his face and he raised the
sword in both hands.

  “Too late, child…”

  Past the gleaming, steel blade she saw the dragon’s head, the great eyes imploring her, begging her, and it was as though she heard the voice in her mind, “My dear Emma…”

  And then she saw. The great main of leonine hair swept back from his broad forehead, the cold blue eyes, the powerful jaw – he was not Vordr at all! How had she not recognized him? How had she not seen him until now? In that instant she became aware – she saw! - the jewelled dagger at her feet. She crouched down and took hold of it, and standing, plunged it without hesitation into Vordr’s heart.

  He looked down in horror. The sword dropped from his hand. She wrenched the dagger free and his crimson blood flowed from the wound. His eyes bulged and he staggered back and fell at the dragon’s feet.

  In that moment she saw Sigurd’s spirit rise up out of the dragon’s body, like the mist that rose from the river, and vanish. And then the daemon was unleashed. With a terrible growl the dragon rose up. The walls of the cavern shook. The beast lashed out at her with its talons. She stumbled back. Smoke billowed from its nostrils. It drew a massive breath and she ran, stumbling and slipping from the chamber. A great roar of flames pursued her, burning the fog from the air. She screamed for Richard as she ran.

  The cavern walls trembled with the thunder of the dragons feet and wings beating after her. Everywhere she looked the mist swirled, breaking here but condensing there, binding and twisting. A diabolical scream rent the air. Flames belched from the darkness. She stumbled on, slipping and falling as she went, weeping and crying out for Richard.

  A glow ahead. She screamed, “Richard! Richard!”

  She ran for the glow but with every step it seemed to retreat further through the fog. Behind her she could hear the wild thrashing, screaming and pounding of the beast as it pursued her.