How could he speak so calmly?
My chest felt tight; I could hardly breathe. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock and the distant caw of the crows.
“Dana?” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Finally, my shoulders lifted, my stupid body working automatically. Breathe in, then out. Even if you don’t want to anymore. Even if your world has just crumpled, creasing into nothing. I stared at the floor. The slate was scratched from the chair leg. Daddy should get a new chair.
“You knew,” I said to the marked floor. “You’ve always known.”
“Yes,” said my father. “I’ve always known.”
I reached for his hand, a point of certainty in a world that spun, changing and fragmenting around me. “Mother?”
I felt him nod.
I looked at him, but he was staring at the desktop and I couldn’t see his eyes. “When did this happen? To Rosa?”
“She was about your age. Twenty, twenty-five years ago.”
I let go of his hand. “I think I’ll go now.”
Daddy reached out his fingers toward me, palm up. His voice sounded thick, as though he was trying to speak around tears. “My father told me: “Keep your daughters away from your heart.” He only saw Rosa when he had to. State occasions, banquets, ceremonies. Never in private. I couldn’t bear to do that. I hope I did the right thing, Dana.”
I stared up at him. His eyes were wet, and even as I watched, tears rolled down his cheeks. They pooled on the desktop like pearls. Numbly, I thought: I’ve never seen him cry before. He must really love me.
I gave him what comfort I could.
“I guess you did the best you could, Papa.”
I reached for him and we clung to each other, as though we were drowning.
Chapter Nineteen
The Impermanence of Beauty
Seated in front of the mirror, Mother surveyed her face. I hated mirrors, only viewing my reflection if forced, but Mother could stare at herself for hours. Sometimes it seemed that the reflected image was actually Mother’s true self and the flesh-and-blood woman a faint, pale reflection.
Positioning the candles carefully, she turned her head from side to side, inspecting her skin for imperfections. Putting her fingers to her cheeks, she lifted the skin. Stroking her temples, she pulled the scalp back, removing the wrinkles around her eyes.
Numb, feeling like an invisible ghost, I watched from the doorway. It seemed that all around me was make-believe, a mummers’ play against the grim reality of my future.
I couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. It was fiction, I was a heroine in a novel and soon someone would come to save me. So I huddled beside the doorframe and gazed at Mother in the candlelight as a thirsty man watches water.
I’d never wanted to be like her. Rebellious, caring naught for how I looked or how others thought of me, I could not have imagined a worse fate than that of ornamental figurehead. But now, staring at her, I thought: here is company and warmth. And I wanted it. How I wanted it.
Ruth, Mother’s dresser, bustled backwards from the wardrobe, carrying a gown across her crooked elbows. “Are you well, my duck?”
“I have wrinkles,” Mother spoke in a faraway voice.
“Bless you,” Ruth patted her on the head. “Wrinkles, you say! Your Majesty, look at my face.” She put her head next to Mother and in the mirror were two women, one smooth-faced, beautiful, the other homely, plain but somehow comfortable. Mother swallowed and pushed her servant away.
“You don’t have your portrait hanging from the walls,” she said petulantly. “You don’t have to meet with courtiers who like nothing better than gossip. I can see it now, Ruth. They’ll look at my picture then at me, and behind their fans they’ll chatter about how old I look.”
“And what if they do, My Lady?” Ruth placed the gown carefully across a chair. “Everyone gets older. You are still the Queen.”
“You don’t think age matters to the King? It does, Ruth. My father was a king too,” Mother’s head nodded as Ruth began to brush her hair. “With a mistress.”
“Tsk tsk,” muttered Ruth, her expression unchanging as Mother continued. She’d probably heard this story before.
Mother fidgeted with a comb. “My mother, replaced by a servant!” She smiled, an uplifting of lips without humor. “When she died my father didn’t even have a proper mourning for her. He had a ball instead.”
Ruth brushed Mother’s hair with determination. “That ball, duck, was where you met the King. The Prince, as he was then.” She paused for a moment, staring into space. “Ah, how happy he was to have met you. I still remember the pride in his voice.”
“Well, I was happy too,” said my mother grimly. “That evening the slut slipped down a stairwell.” She chuckled.
Looking startled, Ruth turned toward her. “Why do you laugh, My Lady?”
“Who do you think pushed the wench?”
Ruth said nothing more, brushing Mother’s hair hard. Mother seemed lost in her memories, for she too sat silent.
“There you are,” said Ruth. “Shall I pin it up for you?”
Mother shook her head. “His Majesty prefers it loose.” She touched the skin at her eyes. “There must be a cream somewhere that might help. Ruth?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I want you to put the word out. Among the merchants. I’m looking for a skin cream.”
Ruth clucked. “And what’s wrong with the cream I make for you? ’Tis special, that is, made with the petals from your own rose garden.” She smiled at Mother, her wrinkles deep tracks in her face. “A rose cream for our very own rose.”
That title should be Rosa’s, I thought. Abruptly, a tidal wave of misery washed over me, leaving me breathless and terrified. I burst into tears.
“Dana!” Mother said, surprised.
“Mama. Oh, Mama.” I stepped from the doorway and knelt, burying my face in her lap.
“What’s gotten into you, child?”
“The tower. The tower.”
She looked out into the night blackness. “What about the tower?” Her voice was sharp with anxiety. “Stop sniffling, child. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Tears trickled down my face when I looked up at her. “Mama, I can’t.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Papa told me. The tower. I can’t do it, Mama, I can’t. Don’t make me, please. Don’t make me. Tell them I can’t do it.”
Ruth started and dropped the silver brush. With a sideways tip of her head, Mother signaled her to leave.
Mother stared down at me. “Your father finally told you, did he?” I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. Mother shuddered and handed me a linen handkerchief. She touched my head gently as I blew my nose. “Keep the kerchief, dear.”
“Mama, I can’t be the Guardian. I can’t. Poor Aunt Rosa, she’s up in that tower all the time, she never gets out.”
“She does, you know, dear. You saw her when N’tombe arrived.”
“That was the first time I’d ever seen her. I can’t do it, Mama. Don’t make me do it.” I was panting, hardly able to breathe.
Mother patted my head. “Dana. You know what the world is like, outside the Kingdom?”
“People say. There’s plague, war.”
“With war and plague comes famine. No one to till the crops, not enough seed planted, the birds eat what little gets into the soil. You’ve never lived through a famine, Dana. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I don’t care! I can’t be in that tower. The necklace, Mama! It eats the wearer. I’ve seen the wound in Aunt Rosa’s chest. It never heals, Mama. Mama, don’t make me go.”
“Dana, look at me.” Mother put her finger under my chin, tipping my face so I gazed into her stern blue eyes. Her mouth was a hard line. “Listen to me. Sometimes, in life, we don’t get to do what we want. The Guardian is the only thing that keeps this Kingdom healthy. Do you want us all to starve, to become like the l
ands around us?”
“You don’t care about me. You’ll lock me up forever, all because you want your food.”
“That’s enough!” Mother let go of me, leaving me to crouch at her feet like a broken puppet. “You think it’s all about me, Dana? Think about your friends. When I was just a little younger than you, I saw people starve. People would do anything for food.” She shut her eyes, shuddered. “It’s a funny thing; when there is famine the babies don’t cry very much. They don’t have the energy. Oh, at first, when you’re hungry, you want to cry with the emptiness that burns inside you. You look at everything as though it’s food; acorns, shoes, even the dead. After a time, though, it’s not hunger that bothers you. It’s fatigue. And the cold.” Her hands shook in the candlelight.
“I can’t do it, Mama. I can’t.” I hated the whine in my voice.
Mother blinked and looked down at me, sizing me up as though I was a doll needing to be dressed. “You’re getting so big. You should start acting like a lady.” She tugged the bell pull. “I’ll ask Ruth to begin putting your hair up. And you’ll need more clothes.”
“Mama!”
She pushed back her stool and stood, tall and beautiful and remote. “The world isn’t a fair place, child. Really, this is a most necessary lesson to learn.” She bent over me, her breath sweet, and fingered my sleeve. “This is hardly adequate for a princess. You’re nearly fifteen, Dana. You need to start attending state occasions.”
“Mama!”
She put a finger across my lips. “Sometimes, my dear, one must sacrifice oneself. For the greater good.”
Mother had become something foreign, incomprehensible. I couldn’t scream or whine. There was no support, nothing. Tears pooled and fell silently on her skirt. She had seated herself back on her stool and was, again, staring at her face in the mirror as though her reflection held all the answers. I staggered to my feet, my body limp and sagging.
I was a puppet indeed.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty
Drama Queen
Like small boys, Sergeant Ryngell and Will became obsessed with bows and arrows.
Archery was often used in warfare. Usually to soften the heavier cavalry; a volley of arrows, although imprecise, was effective. A longbow could send the arrow near on a quarter mile and pierce strong armor. Taller than Will, such bows required considerable strength to draw.
“A smaller bow would be easier on horseback.” The Sergeant pulled out a couple of apples, handed one to Will. They sat in the shade of the targets to eat them.
“When I was young and foolish,” said the Sergeant, “I ventured far afield.” He threw the core at the wall. It bounced off, spinning bits of apple flesh and pips before it fell. A squirrel darted toward it, pausing on its hind legs to watch for enemies. As neither Sergeant Ryngell nor Will moved, it rushed to the apple core and, holding it firmly in its teeth, ran toward the base of the wall. The Sergeant watched it with a smile.
“Where did you go?” asked Will.
“France, then further north. I was part of a free company. We took up with whatever lord would pay us.” He looked up at the clouds, sighed. “It was a good life, I suppose. A short life, for some of us. But exciting.”
“What happened?”
“Lots of little battles, over forests and who had the right to harvest a crop from which field, and which son should gain a castle. Petty things, mostly.”
“What made you come back?”
“Well, the old king died, for one. I owed the Crown Prince somewhat and I thought he might need a friendly face, at least in the beginning. And I was getting older, and likewise my parents weren’t getting any younger.” He paused. “And there were rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“Aye. I was in Bavaria at the time, serving a tin-pot little lord, helping him fight his little battles over pig food or privies or some sort, when some messenger arrived. From the south, he’d come, his horse nearly foundering under him. Desperate and wild-eyed, he was.” He stopped, looked away.
“Then what?” Will asked.
“Well, then I came home.”
“No, the messenger. What did he say?”
“Let me see,” Sergeant Ryngell scratched his chin. “Something about an ancient enemy arising. No one listened to him though. They all thought he was mad. Save me.”
“Why?”
The Sergeant smiled suddenly. “Well, lad, I’ve not told anyone this before, but something tells me you’ll understand.” He whispered. “I had a dream.”
Will wasn’t sure if the man was serious or just laughing at him.
“It’s true,” the Sergeant picked an apple seed from his teeth. “I was resting up, see, not sleeping so good on account of this little cut here.” He ran a thick finger down the scar across his face. “And I had a real bad dream. Men on horseback running across the world like ants. I woke, told myself it weren’t real, then this mad-eyed messenger arrives, says about the land being overrun by an army, and I knew it was time to leave. I was going home anyways. Da had sent me some coin, enough to get me heading back, and a token, to see me across the strait.”
The Sergeant looked into the distance. “I can’t remember the name of the lord I was serving. He had an ugly face, all threaded with the pox. And he was the sort who can’t see a midden even if he’s deep in muck. If there really was trouble a-brewing he’d do naught until it were too late. I looked at him and thought, why would I want to lay my life on the line for you? Not when I’ve a halfway decent lord at home. So I went to my captain and told him I was heading back.” He smiled at Will, his face twisting. “And here I am.”
“What happened to that lord?” Will asked.
The Sergeant shrugged. “Blessed if I know. Not as though we’d keep in touch, write letters and such. But there were tales, just before I left, that an army was coming from the east. And there was talk of men on horseback, armed with bows and swords. And magic. Didn’t believe it at the time, but now ...” He stopped, looked up at the tower. “You say your princess had a dream, also.”
“She’s not my princess.”
“Anyways,” said the Sergeant, his lips quirking into a smile. “I’m getting the same feeling in my spine that I had when I woke from that dream. And this time, I don’t have no fever.”
Suddenly feeling cold, Will looked at the Sergeant. Was the man saying his dream was real?
“Do you want that apple?” asked the Sergeant. Will shook his head. He didn’t feel like eating.
Sergeant Ryngell set it on top of the target. “Come on. Let’s try again.”
* * *
Will drew and loosed, drew and loosed. He tried to think only of the target, not of the day, bright and clear, or his dream, or the Sergeant’s tale. But no matter how he tried, all he could think of was the Princess.
She’s not my princess. He’d never be invited to her sort of party. Who would want a common-born bakery ’prentice at a royal revel – especially someone like him, a nameless foreigner? Her birthday was drawing nigh, but he’d not be invited to that party, either. He wanted to punch that stupid courtier, the one who’d gotten the Princess drunk. It was a mean trick.
“You know what’s wrong with this?” said the Sergeant after a time. Will said nothing. He knew what was wrong. I must not think of her. Yet the more he tried to fix his mind on something else, the more he thought of Dana, with her red-gold hair bound up, fighting out of a hold, her breath soft on his face, her skin warm, her body lithe in his arms, even as she slipped under his guard.
“The shape of the bow is wrong,” said Sergeant. “These longbows, they’re good from a standing position. But the army was on horseback. So we need to be moving. With a different type of bow, smaller, more springy.”
“What?” said Will.
“This army, the one you and I saw,” said the Sergeant thoughtfully, “was moving fast.”
“It was a dream, sir.”
Sergeant Ryngell shrugged. “Dream, real, w
hat does it matter? Either way, there’s something to consider here. The men you saw were on horseback, weren’t they?”
Will shrugged. It was hazy in his memory. “Maybe.”
“We need to be on horseback too,” said the Sergeant. He turned to walk away.
“Wait,” called Will, setting down his bow. “Sir, where are you going?”
“To the stables,” called Sergeant Ryngell. “You coming?”
“I can’t ride,” called Will.
“What?”
“I can’t ... Oh, what’s the point?” muttered Will, putting down his bow and running after the retreating Sergeant. “Sir, I can’t ride.”
“Nonsense,” said the Sergeant crisply, “you were on horseback when I met you. At the bridge.”
“I was on a donkey, sir.”
The Sergeant sniffed. “Boy like you, not being able to ride a horse? It’s a disgrace. How old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
The man stopped, stared at him. “You’re telling me you’re sixteen years of age and can’t ride a horse?”
Will shrugged, said nothing.
“Well,” said Sergeant Ryngell. “It’s time you learnt.”
* * *
The following week, Will was in a sour mood. He stood on the soft sand, watching the birds chirp merrily in the trees, and wished he was in bed with a warmer against his aching thighs. Sitting on a donkey didn’t require much work – who would have thought riding a horse was so hard?
The Riding Master said his progress was “acceptable’, which was something for a commoner. Will knew, though, that he’d never be as good as one of the blood – they’d been born to this life of riding prime animals; they sat in the saddle as if they belonged there. Not like him. He slumped into the saddle like a bag of flour.
He hoped the Princess wouldn’t keep him waiting long. He hoped the Princess would be in a better frame of mind today. What was with her, anyway? One moment she was a carefree, singing May Queen, all joyous with spring, looking every inch a princess. Now, she trailed about the Castle like a woebegone waif.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 16