Silence: Little Mermaid Retold (Romance a Medieval Fairytale series Book 5)
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"I won't do it. I won't stay silent. They deserve their fate," she said through gritted teeth.
"They're boys. Your brothers. Boys shouldn't be punished for pulling a prank. They weren't hurting anybody. Those novices were too easily frightened." Father dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand.
"And what of the witch? Or Lady Penelope? Or Sir Godfrey, the knight they murdered?" Margareta demanded. "A man is dead. His wife a widow, his child fatherless. They demand justice."
Her father surveyed the study. "Yet I don't see them here. Just you."
Margareta slammed her fist into the table. "Yes, me. The daughter you duped into helping you free my dastardly brothers from a curse they deserve."
"They killed a man who attacked them, Meg. There is no crime in that. They are my sons, and one day Beacon Isle will belong to them. In the meantime, they carry my justice from one end of the island to the other. Perhaps they might have overpowered the man, and brought him here to face justice instead of killing him outright, but there were a lot of women present who might have been in danger from the madman. If they were here, I could ask them, but they are not, and they will not return until the curse is broken. A curse you swore you would break."
"That was before I knew how much they deserved it!" Margareta cried. "If I break this curse, one day they will be masters of Beacon Isle, and heaven help the islanders when you are gone. There will be no justice, for they will be lords who take whatever they will, and no woman will be safe. I will not be a part of this, Father."
"So you will let your brothers remain birds forever, because you, a girl who has not been taught to rule like her brothers have from their infancy, think you know better?"
Margareta folded her arms across her chest. "Any village idiot knows better that to torment innocent women for their own amusement. I would do a far better job at ruling this island than any of my brothers."
"No woman can rule," Father scoffed. "That is why girls must marry. So their husband can rule their lands with the strength required to hold them, or they would soon lose them to conquest."
In the human world, Margareta knew this to be true, but beneath the waves, it was a different story. "Not my kind. Under the surface, women rule the oceans. And the men who think they are strong enough to challenge us for our domain die," she said fiercely.
The Master of Beacon Isle leaned back in his chair, considering her. "Very well. If you lift the curse on my sons, I will give you Beacon Isle as your dowry when you marry."
Margareta held his gaze, knowing the lie that lurked beneath his promise. Her kind did not marry, and no human male would survive long in her bed. But he would only need to survive long enough to claim her dowry, and Beacon Isle would be safe. Her brothers could never inherit.
"We have an accord," she said.
The Master was quick to follow up on what he thought was his advantage. "Indeed we do. See that you keep your promise and save my sons."
Mutely, Margareta nodded. If by breaking the curse, she could free Beacon Isle from the curse of her brothers, her silence was a small price to pay. One which would yield lands, a husband and maybe even the one thing she wanted most – a child like Melitta.
Ten
Later that evening, in the solitude of her chambers, Margareta took a knife and sliced the skin of her arm, letting the blood flow. She was a weak spellcaster with anything that wasn’t water, and she wanted this spell to work. What might take another enchantress merely a drop of blood took much more from Margareta.
She wove her magic carefully, making sure the spell affected only herself. When she was done, silence settled over her tongue. There would be no mistakes or changes of heart this time. She would not, nay, could not speak until her brothers’ curse broke and they returned to Beacon Isle. Until then, her voice would not be heard.
Not a word or a laugh or a single sound would pass her lips for more than six years, when fate intervened.
For a siren whose voice is never heard is hardly a siren at all. Maybe enough to make a man wonder whether she might make a suitable wife.
Eleven
Had Beacon Isle been this green the last time he here? Erik wondered as the island came into view. He couldn’t remember. Last time, he’d been too caught up in the sheer adventure of it all, his first sea voyage, his first journey at all. He’d had responsibilities then, too, which had taken much of his time. Armour did not polish itself and salt from the sea voyage had conspired to make his duties tenfold more difficult.
He’d learned a lot about the sea since then, and those who made their living on it. Enough to know how to keep his sword from rusting, and to wear leather armour, when he wore any at all. He was on a mission of peace, not war, and he was under strict instructions not to risk his life unnecessarily.
Just as his brother, Philip, had not risked his own in anything more ordinary than a sea voyage. A voyage that had both blessed and cursed Erik, for he alone had survived. He and a girl he swore he’d find.
Six years it had taken to convince his father to allow him to go to sea. Anything could have happened to her in that time. She might have died, or married, or run far away from Beacon Isle, but that was the last place he’d seen her, so that was where he would start his search.
That Beacon Isle was at the heart of other, stranger stories than his intrigued him. His father dismissed the tales as the fantasies of sailors embellished by nurses who wished to frighten children. Yet Erik knew something his father did not – he had his own dreams and memories to go on, the proof of his own eyes. A moment of foggy memory that would not leave him alone gave credence to all the tales the way nothing else could.
And yet…
Erik sighed. The tales told so many conflicting things, it was hard to make any sense of them. That was why we sought the source of such tales – and the library on Beacon Isle was famed far and wide. Why, it was said that some of the books from the library of the ancients, which burned a thousand years ago, had been salvaged and were kept even now in the priory at Beacon Isle. Not that he wanted scrolls from so far afield. He wanted the history of Beacon Isle itself and the waters surrounding it. Especially the waters…
Water he would have to cross if he was to find what he sought, Erik told himself, forcing himself to step across the gangplank to shore. There, that was not so difficult, he chided himself as his boots touched the cobbled surface of the dock.
He’d surprised himself with how easy it was. Weren’t all seas the same water, after all? He’d sailed many of them in his thankless quest, but still he had no more answers than when he’d started. That’s why Beacon Isle must hold the answers. Here his quest had begun, and here it would end, one way or the other. Either he would find the answers he sought, or he would be forced to agree with his father that whatever he’d seen in the water was nothing but an illusion invented by his own fevered brain.
Erik took a coin, tossed it into the air and caught it on the back of his hand. Heads and he was delusional; tails and he would find what he sought here. Erik lifted his hand, and cheered aloud when he did not see his father’s engraved profile on the uppermost side of the coin. He would find something here, he was certain of it. If not her, then perhaps the book he wanted waited in the library.
Erik itched to begin his search, but he knew better. Politics demanded he present himself to the Master of Beacon Isle first, for he was his father’s son, and his father had his own reasons for keeping the Master happy.
Aside from its value to Erik, Beacon Isle was one of the richest trading ports in the region, accepting goods from all corners of the globe and trading them far and wide. It was strategic to the defence of half a dozen countries that surrounded it, and it had its own navy that served Beacon Isle and acknowledged no king as its sovereign except the Master of Beacon Isle.
A Master, yet not a king. It even piqued Erik’s curiosity how a man could hold such power without a crown. Almost as though there was more to Beacon Isle than anyone thought.
The town quickly dropped behind him as he ascended the hill where legend said one of the saints had founded the first priory on the site. The rude wooden huts that had once stood there were long gone, replaced by the edifice of white and grey stone that occupied the crown of the hill overlooking White Harbour. On a beautiful day such as this, it was a view fit for a king.
Erik stepped through the gate into the bailey, his rich clothing announcing his arrival before he could open his mouth.
Men set off for the port to bring his belongings while another asked for his name and ushered him into the great hall, where he was offered food and wine while he waited for the Master.
Bemused, Erik accepted the offer of wine, wondering how far afield the vintage had come from, for it was surely too cold for grapes on Beacon Isle. A cautious sip told him all he needed to know – the wine was not from grapes at all, but made with berries in the style made famous by a kingdom to the south of his father’s that backed onto the mountains, and a particular favourite at his father’s court. His father had hinted that a marriage between Erik and the king’s only daughter would be advantageous for both kingdoms, but Erik had no intention of marrying a woman he’d never met. Life would include enough unhappiness without sharing it with a woman he didn’t love.
"Prince Erik. It is an honour," a deep voice said. The man who entered the hall looked ancient, instead of the same age as Erik’s own father. But no one else would walk into the Great Hall great hall of Beacon Isle like a king granting a great favour to one of his subjects. This ageing nobleman was stronger than he appeared, for no weakling could hold the rich lands of Beacon Isle without even a crown to legitimise his claim to the neighbouring kingdoms.
Erik set his goblet on the table, turned and bowed. "Master Nicholas. I thought you would send one of your sons to greet me. I had no idea that you would take the time to meet me yourself. The honour is mine."
Master Nicholas’s eyes clouded with something like grief. "My sons, like so many others, have gone on a long journey to seek redemption for their sins. I hope to see them home soon, but I fear I shall find them changed men, after such a long absence. Many years."
Erik murmured something appropriate about how proud he must be of his sons. While Master Nicholas waxed lyrical about his numerous sons and their even more numerous talents, Erik wondered what it would be like to undertake a crusade to free the Holy Land like Nicholas’ sons evidently had. It seemed such a pointless business that one would surely have had to commit some truly grievous sins in order to require such lengthy reparation.
He debated whether Master Nicholas’s boys had done something particularly bad, or whether the fervour of others had caught them up like so many other young noblemen. Surely the latter.
"And what brings you here to my humble isle?" Master Nicholas asked.
Erik managed a smile. "Why, a quest of my own. I have developed a singular interest in the history of the region, and I’ve found a large gap in the history of Beacon Isle. Considering the fame of your library, I naturally assumed the information I sought would be here."
Master Nicholas laughed, though it sounded hollow. He knew as well as Erik that the one thing Erik’s father, and in fact all the neighbouring kings, wanted to know, was which king had last held sovereignty over Beacon Isle…and how, if at all, he had lost it. Such a secret would surely be within the archives here on Beacon Isle.
"I will see to it that you have a research assistant who is an expert in all of our library collections, the day after tomorrow. First, you must rest from your journey, and tomorrow is our harvest feast, so you must join us. I will introduce you to my daughter at the feast, too."
Erik suppressed a sigh. What was it with men once they had a daughter? The moment she was old enough, they all wanted to marry the poor girl off, and they all looked eagerly at him as the prospective husband. As if a good marriage began with a desire to please the girl’s father, and not the girl herself. When he found the girl he wanted, he would do everything within his power to please the girl. She was the one he intended to share his life with, after all.
He made noises that he hoped sounded eager, then escaped the Master as quickly as he could without being rude.
Twelve
Penelope finished tying the laces of Margareta’s gown. "There," she breathed, standing back to admire her handiwork.
"She looks beautiful, Mama. Like a princess," six-year-old Melitta squealed, clapping her hands. "Can I be Harvest Queen, too, when I’m all grown up?"
"She’s not the Harvest Queen, sweetheart," Penelope said. "The Harvest Queen wears gold, not blue. Lady Margareta is the Lady of Beacon Isle, and one day she’ll be the Mistress of the whole island."
"What about me?" the child demanded.
Margareta couldn’t hide her smile. When she was that age, she’d admired the village girls chosen to be Harvest Queens, and wished that some day she might be one of them. Now, she knew better. The girl chosen to lord it over her fellows at each Harvest Festival never lacked for partners when the dancing started, and she never failed to find a husband before the first winter snows. From the moment the blessed crown of flowers touched the Queen’s head, she became the sole focus of every man present. For the blessing was one of fertility…and any man who could win the Queen’s affections that night was certain to sire a child on her, hence the rapid weddings.
She remembered her brothers being among previous queens’ suitors. As a child, she’d seen the uncrowned queens marrying other men, and she’d pitied her brothers for being rejected. Now, she realised that wasn’t the case – the girls had been hurriedly married off to save what honour they had left after her brothers had finished with them.
That wouldn’t be the fate of tonight’s Queen, however – Margareta was certain of that. Queen Gerda was safe from her cursed brothers, and well known to be walking out with young Kay, a boy orphaned by the very same shipwreck that Prince Philip and his entourage had died in. Margareta hoped she’d see Gerda and Kay reach a marriage accord tonight, and that the competition of other men wanting her hand would spur the boy into action before he lost the girl.
"Perhaps when you are older, you will be Harvest Queen, and I shall make you a beautiful dress in gold," Penelope said to her daughter.
"No! Blue like Lady Margareta!" the child shrieked.
Penelope shook her head. "Your spirit is all spit and fire, child. If you are ever Harvest Queen, the boys will burn the city for you, thinking it is Midsummer and not harvest at all." She dropped her voice lower so only Margareta could hear. "I already told you, the competition will frighten the boy off. I’ll wager you the first piece of velvet off my loom that he is too cowardly to ask the girl. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of her."
Margareta had to admit Penelope had an edge on her, being able to read the boy’s thoughts and all, but Margareta wanted to believe some happiness would come of tonight’s feast. Besides, watching the Harvest Queen while she was stuck at the high table, where no man would dare ask her to dance, would provide some amusement in an otherwise tedious evening.
"Let us go," Penelope said, straightening the veil she wore over her hair. To the two veiled novices who’d appeared in the doorway, she added, "Make sure she’s in bed as soon as she’s finished her supper. I don’t want her sneaking downstairs to the feast again."
The novices murmured their agreement.
To the sound of Melitta screaming about wanting to come to the ball, too, Penelope and Margareta made their way down to the great hall. Penelope’s dove grey gown and matching veil marked her as a widow, though she was long since finished with her mourning period. Margareta’s blue gown glowed like the sky above, setting off her curved figure to perfection. When she arrived at the door to the great hall, silence fell without anyone needing to announce her name. The breath caught in every male throat as eac
h and every man present desired to possess her, and every feminine gasp spoke volumes about how much they wished they could be her.
Margareta did not need the Harvest Queen’s crown or Penelope’s mind-reading magic to know these things – it was plain in the expression on every face. Even when her tongue was silent, a siren’s body sang a song so enticing no human could resist.
Ignoring all the eyes on her, Margareta led the way to the high table. She paid little heed to the men already seated at her father’s right and left hands as she headed for her accustomed seat at the far end of the table. She shared her small bench with Penelope, because after her, Penelope was the second highest ranking woman in the room.
The feast itself passed much like any other – everyone ate too much and drank more, until the volume of their collective voices rose to a roar that echoed around the room. When the roar approached what Margareta thought was its crescendo, her father rose to announce the Harvest Queen, who would open the dancing.
Clad in the traditional saffron-coloured gown worn by Harvest Queens for as long as Margareta could remember, Gerda approached the dais and dropped a deep curtsey, letting her skirt puddle around her as she’d no doubt practised. Father, as Master of Beacon Isle, laid the blessed crown of flowers on the girl’s head and bade her to rise as royalty.
The moment the crown touched her hair, the atmosphere in the room changed from the sated merriment after a feast to charged anticipation.
"We’re not the only ones betting on who the little queen chooses to be her king," Penelope whispered .
If it weren’t for her spell of silence, Margareta would have had to smother a laugh. A lot of young men had turned their eyes on Gerda, as though seeing the girl for the first time. Poor Kay, who’d sat beside her at the feast, now stared into his mug of ale as though he couldn’t bear to see how beautiful Gerda looked tonight.