Anwen of Primewood

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Do you know of a man named Dimitri?” Galinor asks.

  The gypsy eyes the prince. “I might.” His focus lands on Galinor’s money pouch, and he gives the prince a pointed look.

  Galinor tosses the man a copper.

  “There are a lot of Dimitris.”

  I step forward. “He’s a Bandolian prince.”

  Galinor gives me a look as if to say, don’t get too close. I ignore him.

  “Ah, that Dimitri,” the gypsy says, a smirk lifting his age-worn face. “I might know that Dimitri.” He raises his eyebrows at Galinor expectantly.

  Galinor makes a disgusted noise, but this time, he flips the man a piece of gold. The man’s face lights up with greed. He bites the coin, and, satisfied it’s real, tucks it in his pouch.

  “Is his troupe here?” Galinor asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Do I look like a nursemaid?” the gypsy sneers. “I’m not his keeper. I have no idea where he may be.” Apparently finished with us, the man tilts his head for us to move along.

  We continue our search, but every answer is the same. Recognition flashes in their eyes, but their responses are cryptic at best. We’re not one of their own, and they won’t help us.

  Irving shrugs when we are once again sent on our way. “Silence is a good creed amongst thieves, liars, and cheats.”

  I’m never going to find Dimitri.

  “What do we do?” Galinor asks.

  We’ve wandered back to the copse of trees where I’ve left Danver. I whistle for him as the men discuss our plan. When he doesn’t come, I push my way through the bushes.

  “Where are you going?” Marigold asks.

  I glance over my shoulder. “To find Danver.”

  Galinor works his jaw. I think he might argue, but instead he says, “Don’t go too far.”

  I wander through the trees, looking for the fox. I hear the great, rumbling purr before I see Pika, but even with the warning, I almost shriek when she barrels through the brush at me.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper as I try to catch my breath from the surprise.

  Danver trots up behind the glasseln. Apparently the two have bonded. Pika falls at my feet, rubbing her back on the grass and begging to be scratched.

  I crouch down to stroke her ears. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Anwen?” Galinor calls. Judging from the distance of his voice, he is close. “I thought I…” Galinor’s eyes go wide when he sees the glasseln stretched out at my feet. Once the initial shock wears off, he narrows his eyes at the large cat. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, helpless. “I can’t believe she followed us all this way.”

  Pika stands, saunters to Galinor, and presses her head against his abdomen.

  Galinor stands still. With a wary voice, he asks, “What is she doing?”

  I roll my eyes. “She wants you to pet her.”

  Galinor cringes but slowly—very slowly—he gives her an awkward pat on the top of her head. Elated, Pika rubs against him, almost knocking him over.

  “She likes you!”

  “Wonderful.”

  “At least we know she won’t eat you,” I tease.

  Galinor gives me a withering look. “You’re going to have to keep her hidden, at least while we’re in Crayhope.”

  I nod.

  It takes several tries, but finally Pika stays while we leave to find the others. I glance back to make sure she doesn’t follow.

  Bran, Dristan, and Marigold are speaking quietly when we return. They look up, their faces almost guilty when they see us.

  “What’s wrong?” I narrow my eyes. “Where’s Irving?”

  Dristan clears his throat. “He, uh…”

  Why are they looking at me like that? My stomach tightens. What has happened?

  Marigold finally steps forward, her eyes full of pity. “There was a woman. He disappeared with her a few moments ago.”

  A woman? I scrunch my brows, trying to understand. Once I do, I laugh. They gape at me, and I shrug. “He’ll be back soon enough.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” Dristan asks.

  I glance through the trees at the gypsies loitering in the village square, and then I look back at our party. “I have an idea.”

  ***

  “I can’t sell you anything,” the crabby merchant says. “Not until the Marquis makes up his mind.”

  I shift my weight, thinking. “What if you pull your cart back to the road and we do our business there?”

  The man thinks about it, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “I’d lose my spot.”

  “It’s not a good spot anyway,” I point out.

  Grumbling, the man fetches his grazing horse. “You had better make this worth my while.”

  I nudge Galinor, but he only grunts. He doesn’t love my idea.

  The man finally moves out of the square, and we meet him by the fork in the road.

  “What are you buying?” the merchant asks, taking stock of us. For the first time, it seems to register we’re not a ragtag bunch.

  His eyes light up as I pull all the scarves and two large bolts of silk from his cart. I glance at him. “Do you have any trim? Any tassels?”

  The merchant tents his hands, tapping his fingers eagerly. “I have a fine woven gold trim from Orick and lovely strands of shells from Ptarma.”

  “Yes, yes,” I say, nodding. “We’ll take those as well. What about jewels?”

  He scurries into his cart, and his portly legs climb the steps of his wagon. He gives us a promising smile and inserts a key into a locked side compartment.

  He pulls out a box and opens it with a flourish. “Exquisite unworked jewels from across the seas.” He leans in close as if he were going to tell us a great secret. “They were bound for Triblue’s royal court, but they were misplaced. I will extend my excellent deal to you fine patrons.”

  Dristan and Bran exchange a look, but they say nothing.

  The man holds a crystal out for my inspection. “Finest diamond you will ever lay eyes on.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That’s clear quartz.”

  The merchant bristles. “I assure you, it is not.”

  I roll the stone in my hand. “I assure you, it is.”

  Marigold steps forward and eyes the stone. “Most assuredly quartz. It lacks an octahedral fracture.”

  The merchant glares at Marigold. “It’s a very rare type of diamond.”

  “Then I’m sure we can’t afford it.” Galinor plucks the stone from my hand and gives it back to the man. He motions toward my hefty pile of goods. “How much for all this?”

  The man pockets the cheap crystal and taps his lips. “All of that? I can give you the excellent deal of twenty gold coins.”

  “Ten,” I interrupt before Galinor can pay the man.

  Has he never bartered? The naive prince was already reaching into his coin pouch.

  The merchant turns to me, mock astounded. “These are fine goods, but I see you are a scrupulous woman. I suppose I may drop as low as eighteen gold pieces.”

  “Fifteen or we will walk away,” I counter.

  The man’s face scrunches up in a sour look. “Sixteen, final offer.”

  Elated we’re getting such a good price, I say, “Deal.”

  We haul our goods back to our patch by the forest. I keep my eyes open for Pika as I lead them into the brush and away from prying eyes. She seems to be staying back.

  Dristan sifts through my treasures. “Now what are you going to do with all this?”

  I turn to Marigold. “Do you have needles? Thread?”

  “Of course,” she answers.

  “Galinor, take off your tunic and hand it to me.” I turn to Marigold. “We’ll cut the sleeves off and hem it up to make a vest.”

  I purse my lips as I examine Dristan and Bran’s shirts. As princes of Triblue, their attire is entirely different fr
om Galinor’s. Bran’s shirt is beige and Dristan’s is red, but they both lace up the front and have billowy sleeves. Their trousers are tight, as is suited for climbing up ship’s rigging.

  “Your shirts are fine.” I toss the brothers several scarves. “Bran, tie this around your head. Dristan, roll yours up and belt it around your waist.”

  Galinor stares at me like I’ve misplaced my sanity. “Is this necessary?”

  I give him an impatient look and wave at him to hurry. He grumbles as he pulls the shirt over his head.

  Oh, goodness.

  Flustered, I snatch the shirt away from him, careful to keep my eyes averted. Marigold doesn’t bother to look away. She gawks at him, her eyes wide.

  I thrust the shirt at her. “Do you have a knife?”

  She yanks her gaze back to me. “Why would I have a knife?”

  Purposely avoiding Galinor, I look to the brothers. “Dristan? Bran?”

  They shake their heads, but I refuse to look at Galinor again. I’ll just make a fool out of myself.

  Galinor steps forward, handing me his dagger. “Here.”

  I accept it, my eyes on the steel. He chuckles low and walks away.

  Once the sleeves are removed and the raw edges bound, I slice the tunic down the middle. I hold up the vest to inspect our work after we hem it and add the gold trim.

  “It will do.” I hand it back to Galinor. “Tie one of the long scarves around your waist before you put it on.”

  He selects a scarf that is far too short. “What do you mean?”

  I lift myself off the ground. “No, not that one.” I find one that is longer and striped. “This one.”

  “How do you want me to…?”

  I snatch it from him. “Honestly, Galinor, it’s not that difficult.” Keeping my eyes on the ground, I wrap the scarf around his middle and tie it at his side.

  “I suppose it wasn’t.”

  A retort is on my lips, but I forget it when I look up at him. His mouth quirks in a half smile, and my stomach flutters.

  I step quickly away and snatch the shells from the ground. I toss them at Dristan. “Find a way to put these—”

  I’m interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek. I swivel around, already knowing what I’m going to find. Pika is in front of Marigold, staring at her with curious eyes and a twitching tail.

  “Marigold, it’s all right—”

  And just like that, Marigold passes out.

  Bran has already unsheathed his sword, ready to slay the glasseln, and Dristan is searching for his bow.

  Galinor steps in front of them. “No!”

  The brothers pause, surprised.

  “It’s Anwen’s,” Galinor continues, obviously irritated with the whole situation.

  “She’s friendly,” I assure them, and I go to her.

  Pika lets out a loud mew. She then sits back on her haunches, watching us. I stroke her head and wings, and she purrs with pleasure.

  “Impossible,” Bran whispers.

  Dristan stares on with a slack jaw and disbelieving eyes.

  Bran rips his attention from the glasseln to me. “She’s a pet?”

  I shake my head. “No, but she befriended us in Lauramore, and now she’s followed us here.”

  “That’s the thing that was stalking us!” Bran exclaims.

  It’s hard to take him seriously with a scarf tied around his head.

  “She’s fine.”

  As if to prove my words are true, Danver leaps from the underbrush and runs for the glasseln. He sits next to her, and she leans down, nuzzling his little body.

  Marigold groans from the ground, and I go to her side. “Wake up, Marigold. She’s harmless.”

  She blinks, and her eyes focus on the giant cat. Her lips part to scream, but I clap a hand over her mouth. “Stop, you’ll draw attention to us.”

  Marigold looks at me, her eyes filled with terror.

  “She’s friendly—watch.” I leave Marigold’s side and sit down next to Pika. She nuzzles my head as I scratch her chest.

  “Why can’t you have a dog like normal people?” Marigold hisses.

  I laugh. Marigold will be fine.

  Not as hesitant as Bran, Dristan comes forward, holding his hand out for Pika to smell. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “Keep her in the brush for now,” Galinor says. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

  While the others are still engrossed with Pika, I unroll a long bolt of deep red silk. Marigold’s ivory skirts will be fine with a few scarves tied over them, but the bodice will have to be cut off and replaced. It’s too prim and trim. I work quickly, doing the best I can to cut the fabric with Galinor’s dagger.

  The men settle on the forest floor, and Bran starts a fire. My stomach growls, but with the fate of the festival undecided, we won’t be able to buy fresh meat.

  It’s almost dark when I have the new bodice finished.

  “Should I go look for Irving?” Dristan asks.

  He’s been gone for several hours now.

  Unconcerned, Galinor tosses another log on the fire. “He’ll find his way back.”

  Bran motions to the remaining scarves and extra silk. “What do you want to do with the rest of this?”

  I click my tongue, thinking. “Leave the scarves for Irving. I think I’ll use the silk on Marigold’s dress.”

  Marigold casts a doubtful look at the blouse I’ve sewn. “I don’t see what’s wrong with what I’m wearing.”

  I hold up my project. I’m pretty proud of it, myself. I string the neckline with leather, tie it at the front, and then instruct her on how to wear it.

  “I will not cut the bodice off my dress,” she says, going white.

  I give her a light shove to the forest so she can change. “Once this is all over, I’ll have Father buy you a new one.”

  She takes one step toward the dark woods, and then she hesitates.

  “It’s all right,” I say, “I’ll go with you and change as well.”

  I pull my gypsy clothes out of my pack. I’m thankful I saved them.

  We walk deep into the forest for modesty’s sake, tripping over roots and branches as we go. Marigold whines as I cut the bodice free from her skirts. After the fabric is severed, we change quickly.

  Marigold practically runs back to the light of the fire.

  As I walk, I undo my braid and shake my hair out. It’s even curlier now, and I like the way it corkscrews past my shoulders.

  “Since you don’t have a corset belt, tie one of those scarves around your waist,” I say to Marigold.

  She nods.

  Just as she is tightening the knot at her hip, footsteps sound from the edge of the forest. I shoo Pika back into the brush—and just in time.

  A young gypsy strides into our camp. He’s handsome in a white, billowy shirt; long, tight vest; and several scarves tied about his waist. On his head, he wears a large captain’s hat with a huge, plumed feather.

  He graces us with a cocky grin as he bows low.

  “Welcome back, Irving,” I say. “I see you’ve found yourself new clothes.”

  Irving winks. “I’ve done better than that, darling. I’ve bought us a gypsy cart.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gypsy Fortunes

  “What are we supposed to do with a gypsy cart?” Galinor demands.

  Irving shrugs but continues to grin. “We’ll follow the gypsies. The girls can sleep in it, and we’ll blend in.”

  As Galinor and Irving bicker about the new purchase, I walk through the dark woods back to Crayhope, needing time away from them to think. Fires in lit urns glow down the pathways in the village. A large crowd has gathered in the square, and I make my way to them.

  No one pays me any mind as I shoulder my way through the crowd. A man is talking, but I can’t see him or quite make out his words. Suddenly the crowd in front of me lets out a great collection of shouts. The reason for their joy quickly travels to where I stand in the back.

&nbs
p; The festival will continue as usual.

  A dark figure dressed in jester’s garb swings from atop one of the shops in the square, a torch in his hand. I stand on my tiptoes, hoping for a better view. The man drops the torch to a pyre in the center of the square, and it lights. The people around me cheer at the sight of the tall, hot flames. Girls with tambourines dance and sing, others begin music, and everywhere people are laughing and cheering.

  I wander amongst them, soaking up the merriment surrounding me. My heart aches when I think of Dimitri. I’m here, in his world, amongst his people.

  A hand settles on my shoulder, and I spin around.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Galinor says. “I’m not sure it’s wise to wander alone in the evening.”

  I glance around. Already people are drowning themselves in mead and wine. It won’t be long before the merriment becomes darker. Still, I don’t want to join the others yet.

  I hold out my hand. “Stay with me?”

  All around us, there are people dancing and singing, but we two are in our own tiny world, immune to the chaos around us. A girl with a flute travels past, making a melody that’s joyful, yet haunting.

  Finally Galinor takes my hand. A thrill runs through me, but I try to act nonchalant as I tug him toward the crowd that has gathered nearby.

  A trio of acrobats has begun their act. They roll and jump to each other’s shoulders then vault to the ground with impressive twists and somersaults. Spectators toss coins in an overturned hat, which has already gathered an impressive collection. The crowds are feeling generous on the first night of the festival.

  Galinor stands close, his arm pressed against mine.

  After a few moments, we wander farther down another street, following the fiery urns. Not far from us sits a tent with an exotic young woman inside. She wears scarves over her face, and she sits in front of a glass ball.

  “Have your fortunes told, young lovers,” she says, beckoning us forward.

  I freeze, not only from the assumption she has made, but also from the welcoming, eager look in her dark eyes. Magic is forbidden, and yet, there is still that pull. What could she tell us?