The Prince

by K. C. Herbel

  “Oh, what’s the use?” She slouched again. “I could never bring myself to do it.”

  Megan, who was sitting near the window, looked up at the unexpected utterance. “Do what, milady?”

  “Nothing.” Besides, it would only give Snegaddrick and Gwythia fuel to do worse things still.

  Myrredith noticed that the window behind her maid was now painting a long narrow band across the floor and up the far wall. It would be dark soon. Another precious day gone.

  “What time is it, Megan?”

  “I reckon it’s near supper, milady.”

  Myrredith stood before the full-length mirror and stared at her reflection.

  “Then ready my best gown!”

  “But milady, just because he says so doesn’t mean you have to. You need more time!”

  Lady Myrredith spoke in a dry voice. “More time? More time for what?”

  Megan fell into an uncustomary silence.

  Myrredith sighed. “I haven’t got more time.”

  The silence stretched out around them like a desert.

  Finally, Megan asked, “Your best black gown, milady?”

  “Of course,” came the reply. “The one with the high lace. Tonight, I dine with a prince.”

  Megan rose with a sullen demeanor and did as her lady commanded. The little life Myrredith had felt was gone. She remembered the famine that had struck Lyonesse a few years earlier. Soon after the fishing lanes had gone dry, she lost the only child she had ever bore. The miscarriage had torn her apart in body and spirit, yet she had risen from bed that very day to stop a food riot in Dyven. Lady Myrredith had taken food from the stores at Cyndyn Hall and distributed it to her people in the market square, and no one had been the wiser. Only Megan, Eadwig, and her physician ever knew that she almost died.

  When she had finished laying out Lady Myrredith’s attire, Megan sent word to Prince Hereweald that the Lady would be joining him for supper, as ordered. Then, as was her duty, she helped her lady into her clothes. For the first time ever, they accomplished this with neither one speaking a word.

  ***

  The prince welcomed Lady Myrredith into the great hall with a smile and bowed with his arms stretched wide. He wore no armor or weapons and was dressed in a sunny red and yellow tunic and Roman sandals. His step and touch were light as he took her by the elbow to lead her to the head table. He appeared a different man from the swaggering, sword-wielding conqueror of their first meeting.

  The hall itself was ablaze with candlelight and colored ribbons. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, surrounded by tables set for a feast. However, the most warming sight to Myrredith was that of her kitchen staff standing along the rear wall. They appeared clean and healthy, and each bore an encouraging smile for their lady as they bowed.

  The prince nodded, and the servants went about their labors. Most went to the kitchen while the others remained to serve wine and finish setting the large tables.

  Myrredith looked about and saw that, except for Megan and the other servants, she was alone with Prince Hereweald. The only sign of the Gwythian army was two guards at the main entrance and a large banner on the wall behind the head table.

  Lady Myrredith spoke with no hint of emotion, “I am here, as you ordered.”

  “Ordered?” The prince glared at Megan before speaking to Myrredith. “Please, forgive me if my invitation sounded gruff. I was a bit agitated and did not intend it as an order! But now that you are here, please, sit.” Then he spoke to Megan in a restrained voice. “Please, leave us alone, gentle lady.”

  Lady Myrredith nodded to her maid and sat in the seat indicated by the prince. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the merry decorations. “Why have you freed my servants? And where is Eadwig?”

  “Because you wish it, my lady. As for Eadwig, I’m afraid my physician has the old man confined to his bed.”

  Myrredith flicked her eyes at the prince, pondering what game he could be playing. “May I see him?”

  “Yes, of course. In due time.”

  “I see preparations for a feast. Where are the guests?”

  “I have not called for them yet, my lady.”

  Myrredith found something distasteful in the manner he said “my lady.” From his lips, it had the ring of ownership about it.

  “What are you celebrating, Your Highness?”

  “Well … that depends somewhat on you.”

  “Me?”

  “Today is my father’s birthday. All Gwythia will be celebrating, but in addition, I had hoped to announce our engagement.”

  Myrredith turned to face him. To her surprise, he was on one knee beside her with his hand on the arm of her chair. She blinked, not certain what to make of his words.

  Hereweald charged ahead. “Something has been stirred within me. From the moment I saw you, it’s been gnawing at my innards. I’ve been able to think of little else. Even as I rushed into battle, there you were again. I was knocked from my horse and cut off from my guard. I wandered across the battlefield, an easy target, for my heart wasn’t in the fight. My only thought was to get back here to you. I’ve always thought most clearly in battle, but nothing is as clear to me as the revelation I had that night.”

  The prince paused his rapid speech and placed his hand on Lady Myrredith’s. He swallowed and looked into her face, his eyes ablaze with enthusiasm.

  “Myrredith—” He flashed an atypical smile. “You wouldn’t know it, but I have longed to speak your name. Myrredith, you have disarmed this warrior’s heart, and I stand defenseless against you. Marry me. Give me your hand, and my hand shall always protect you.”

  Myrredith was dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that the man who had invaded her land, killed her people, burned their homes, and slew her beloved Hugh, now knelt before her proposing marriage and using words of love as if they would sway her heart. And yet, she knew he was just a pawn of his father in these abhorrent deeds, motivated by misguided revenge and age-old hatred.

  Myrredith beat a hasty retreat back into her mind, but did not find it as comfortable as she had hoped. The answers she sought did not present themselves in their usual clear fashion. Instead, they knotted together with all the emotions and problems she had been refusing to deal with. As soon as she caught the tail of an idea and tried to pull it from the mess, an unrelated emotion or problem would spring forth and tangle up her thoughts further. She felt panicky under Hereweald’s watchful eyes. She feared that she would say something that would somehow make matters worse. Before she realized what she had done, she turned away from him, placing her hands over her quivering mouth.

  Hereweald’s hopeful lips closed. The muscles of his jaw tightened. His nostrils flared wider as his breathing became forced. His flaming eyes cooled and grew diamond-hard. He watched her for another minute, evidently hoping that she would give him a favorable reaction.

  “I see.” The prince removed his hand, then rose to his feet. “You do realize that you still stand accused of Gaelyn’s murder?”

  Myrredith did not answer.

  “Please, Myrredith. I’m trying to help you. As my wife, you would never be held accountable. Indeed, I find it difficult to believe that you could be involved. If you would only say something.”

  His voice reverberated from the rafters.

  “This silence will only bring about your death!”

  Hereweald closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to remain calm. He paced the length of the table, shifting his gaze from the floor to Lady Myrredith, and then back again.

  “I take it, then.” He raised his voice. “That you prefer death over me.”

  “No,” Myrredith said, untangling her tongue. “It’s just …”

  Hereweald stopped pacing. “Just what?”

  “It’s just that—I don’t know how to say it.”

  “Try!”

  “I didn’t know that you felt this way. … I never considered—of course, I’m flattered—”

  “Do not play your games
with me.” The prince turned his back to her. “Either you’ll marry me, or you won’t. If you will not marry me, then you will die. It’s that simple.”

  Myrredith sank back, befuddled by the prince’s seesaw proposal. She could see by his trembling fists that he was on the verge of an explosion, so she whispered, “Please, Your Highness—”

  “Silence!” he shouted, then spun around, his hand raised back as if to strike her. He shook with fury, his eyes wide, his mouth contorted, his nostrils flaring. He screamed and smashed his fist on the table. Then he gripped the arm of her chair with both hands and glared at her through the fringe of his eyebrows.

  “Myrredith.” His voice was low, trembling. “I would give you everything. I would go against my father. Build a kingdom for us right here, on these shores. I would worship you.”

  Lady Myrredith looked Prince Hereweald in the eyes. “If I invaded Gwythia, destroyed your cities, killed and raped your citizens, could you marry me?”

  His expression fell. He stared at her like a man who’d crossed a desert, only to find the well dry. All at once, he rose from the arm of her chair and turned away. He rubbed his forehead and temples with the tips of his fingers. “Guard,” he said, at last. “Guard!”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The soldier ran down the steps.

  “Take Lady Cyndyn to her chamber.” His hands still covered his eyes, but his voice was calm and clear. “I do not wish to see her ever again.”

  The guard escorted Myrredith from the great hall. She never looked back at Hereweald, but his eyes were upon her. Despite what he, as a prince, had done to her and her countrymen, she felt pity for the man who had the misfortune to fall in love with his enemy.

  That night, as Myrredith lay awake in her bed, she could hear the merriment of the celebration in the great hall. The decayed echoes of laughter and singing came rambling up the stairs to her room, but it was not these sounds that kept her awake. It was a memory brought back to life by the prince: the memory of another man who had fallen in love with her.

  “Oh, Hugh.” She sighed. “Sorely do I miss you.”

  Myrredith of Cyndyn, a full-grown woman, a lady of stature, a pillar of strength to those around her, cried like a little girl sent to bed without dinner. And like that little girl, she cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  In the wee hours of the morning, a soggy rain fell over Wyneddhamshire. Pit-a-pat drops and trickling rivulets washed the stones of Cyndyn Hall, rousing Myrredith from her slumber. She lay in bed for some time, listening to a gargling drainpipe as it drank the countless ranks of raindrops.

  The rain stopped and Myrredith rose from her bed. She picked up a woolen shawl on her way to the door.

  Megan awoke. “Where’re ya goin’, milady?”

  “I need some air.”

  Myrredith donned her shawl, and Megan jumped to her feet.

  At first, the guard stationed at the door denied her ladyship’s request, but in the end relented, with the stipulation that he would follow at a discreet distance. “And no funny business!”

  Lady Myrredith agreed, and they went up the stairs.

  Megan followed close behind her mistress as she made her way to the top of Cyndyn Hall. They had forgotten the guard, like forgetting one’s shadow, but neither spoke a word as they walked atop the battlements.

  Something had changed in Myrredith that could not be erased or denied. Her entire youth, she had demonstrated mastery over her destiny. She had seen what fate awaited women of her station and balked. Much to her father’s dismay, becoming a woman hadn’t slowed her headstrong ways. And when, in his senility, he thought to remedy things by marrying her off to the rough and surly Sir Aonghas, she had become all the more stubborn and shrewd. She was the dauntless ruler of her mind and body and, in time, an entire fief. Not to mention her late, bull-headed husband.

  However, the previous night had witnessed an end to that self-reliance and certainty. A message had been delivered, in a manner louder than trumpets. She had been helpless to stop the decurion, and every fiber of her being had known it. In that instant, caught between rage and terror, all she had been—ambitions, goals, dreams—all had vanished. She became so utterly empty, only to fill with numbing despair. Now, she yearned to forget. She would forsake all the nights of her lifetime to forget the one.

  Myrredith stepped closer to the edge and placed a foot in an open crenel. The crisp, moist morning air caressed her face, and she felt Megan’s steadying hands upon her shoulders.

  “Would you fetch my cloak?”

  “Yes, milady, but perhaps it would be better if you came in.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  Megan released her mistress and stepped back. She moved away, looking for someone to fetch her ladyship’s cloak, but there was no one. Even the guard had disappeared from sight. Megan started down the steps and paused to look back. At that moment, the Lady of Cyndyn Hall stepped up into the notch in the battlements.

  “My lady!” Megan ran back up the steps.

  Myrredith ignored her maid. Her mind focused on the narrow bit of masonry separating her from a fatal plummet. Just one step and it would all be over: no more worries, no more strife, no more fear, and Hugh on the other side. She closed her eyes and imagined her descent to the distant rocky earth under the shadow of Cyndyn Hall.

  “My lady, please!”

  Myrredith opened her eyes. She felt dizzy. Her balance shaky. The dark ground below loomed up as she looked down. She lifted her left foot to step back, but the morning rain had made the stones slick. Her right foot slipped out from under her, and down she fell.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dead End

  The first night out of Tirn Aill, the seas calmed, and the Gyldan Mene floated across glassy green water. The moon and her sister-stars admired their reflections glittering on the rippled surface and, for a while, Billy and his companions relaxed and enjoyed the beauty of the sea.

  Within an hour, a fog bank swallowed up the ship, which first dimmed the moonlight, then blotted it out. They lit lanterns, but all they could see was the light surrounding the ship, reflected back at them by the impenetrable fog. The sea grew quiet until the sound of the waves was a whisper. In the eerie stillness, Billy heard the dilapidated ship complain: each creaking board, groaning rope, and squeaking peg.

  Shaldra eyed their surroundings as he sharpened an arrow. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “It’s nothing. Just fog.”

  They sailed through the stillness for hours unnumbered, until all reckoning of time was confounded. The dawn never came. Billy made his way back to the wheel and asked the captain if they were lost, but the captain didn’t answer.

  Sylvys leaned out over the railing, straining to see something below. “Billy! Come here!”

  Billy arrived next to him. “What is it?”

  The satyr grabbed Billy by his shoulders and shook him. “There’s no water!”

  Billy stared at him and crossed his arms.

  “Did you hear what I said? There’s no water beneath us. Look.”

  Billy plodded to the railing and found that, indeed, he could see no water. He squinted, trying to see through the smoke-like fog. “It’s there. We just can’t see it because of this blasted fog.”

  “No, watch.” Sylvys tossed a belaying pin overboard.

  They both watched as it disappeared into the fog without a sound.

  “Wait, wait, wait. … This can’t be. We just have to …”

  Billy took another belaying pin and tied it to the end of a nearby rope. Then he dropped it over the railing. He lowered the rope: first ten feet, then twenty, and thirty.

  “Something is wrong here.”

  “Aye!” Sylvys shivered. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Billy pulled up the rope. The pin and its tether were dry.

  Shaldra came up behind them. “I told you I had a bad feeling about this.”

  Sylvys nodded. “I prefer
to be on water—well, actually, on land—but this ...”

  Billy turned to them. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  Shaldra looked at Sylvys and Billy, then shrugged.

  “You see, there’s nothing to be done. We appear to be safe for now, so try not to think about it.”

  “Try not to think about it?” Sylvys stared. “We’re sailing on nothing!”

  Billy clamped his hand over the satyr’s mouth and nodded to his left.

  In unison, all three of them looked to the bow. The still fully-armored Drif had made camp there and now sat motionless, staring ahead.

  Billy whispered, “I’m not sure I want our friend to know about this.”

  Sylvys and Shaldra nodded in agreement.

  The Gyldan Mene continued on what they presumed was a forward course. Billy was counting on the captain to find his way through the gloom, and quickly. He fought to maintain a calm facade for his comrades while his innards squirmed like fresh-caught eels in a basket at the prospect of being forever adrift in that sea without a sea, in that place of the sunless, starless sky.

  The fog thinned, and then cleared altogether. Billy greeted the stars in the sky with a smile. But it was not the same sky. There were shadows and strange shapes in the heavens, and then he could see that they had entered a cave of enormous proportions. The ceiling arched far above the tallest mast, with crystals and gems set like stars in the dark bluish rock.

  Billy ran back to the stern. “Captain, we’ve entered a cave! Look out!”

  The captain gave no reply. He stared straight ahead and steered his ship further into the cave.

  “Is this the way to Finvarra? Answer me, Captain!”

  The captain’s skull nodded.

  Billy returned to mid-ship and spoke to Sylvys and Shaldra, “This seems to be the way to Finvarra.”

  Sylvys scratched his chin. “How do you know?”

  “The captain.”

  Shaldra scowled. “I don’t trust him.”

  Billy looked at the fierce elf warrior. “What choice do we have? I can’t make him tell us the truth.”