by B. K. Parent
I agreed to Master Rollag’s requests and went back to my booth before heading off to pick up my new boots. I felt comfortable enough leaving the booth in Shyla’s hands and instructed her to ask for help from Master Clarisse if she needed it. I wrapped up the plaque I had carved with a design copied out of the Huntress’ book and headed off to find the rover shoemaker. I took my time wandering down the aisles of booths, looking at the items for sale and noticing the different levels of craftsmanship. I looked in particular in the booths of the knife makers and felt none of knives could compare to the quality that Da made. Again, I had that longing for an ordinary summer where Da, Nana, and I might have traveled to some of the fairs. With what I had learned so far, observing other woodworkers and being introduced to more woods than I ever knew existed, I knew I could fashion handles for Da’s blades which would be the envy of the marketplace. At least in my opinion, they would.
When I arrived at Shueller the shoemaker’s booth, it was empty of other customers. He invited me in, exclaiming that I was going to be very pleased with my new boots. He was right. He sat me down on a bench and went back behind a curtain. I could hear him rummaging around, and then he reappeared carrying a pair of boots. At first glance they looked fairly plain, but when he handed me one, I realized that he had cleverly created a pattern in the deep red brown leather of ivy leaves twining from the toe up to the top of the boot. They were beautiful, and then I tried them on.
“Oh, these fit like they were made for me,” I exclaimed, and then realizing what I had said, continued, very embarrassed. “What I meant was . . .”
It did not help that the shoemaker was quietly chuckling. “I know what you meant, lass, and glad I am that they fit you well. The design then is to your liking?”
“It could not be better. With leather so soft and fine I could dance a jig in these, yet with a sole so sturdy, I could walk from here to the capitol and back. We didn’t discuss price, so I am hoping I don’t have to sell ol’ Flick the horse to possess these.”
We haggled and dickered for a while, just for the enjoyment, and settled on a price which I think was really too low for the boots. After I paid him, I handed him the plaque I had made. I do not know why it was important to make it for him, but it was. I was surprised how shy I felt handing it to him. Maybe because he was an elder in rover terms, and I hoped for his honest approval.
Shueller turned it over in his hands, and when he saw the carving on the front, a tear fell slowly down his craggy, lined, weathered cheek. I began to worry that I had done something wrong.
Seeing the worry and concern on my face, he said, “Ah, there now, lass, these are good tears. ’Tis a beautiful gift you have given me. I never thought in this lifetime I would see anything made with a Neebing pattern again. I had thought them lost and gone forever. I will cherish this for all of my days. Thank you lass.”
I did not know what to say to that, and at any rate, we were interrupted by someone else entering the booth. The man was dressed in forester green very similar to that worn by the Huntress, and I quickly glanced at his hands to see if he wore a ring like mine. He had a ring on with a dark stone in it, but mine did not warm or stir as he passed right by me, heading towards the back of the booth where boots were displayed. He also gave no more than a cursory glance at the plaque the shoemaker was holding. I thought it odd, and then I looked at Shueller and thought I saw a puzzled look cross his face, but I might have been mistaken. I was not mistaken when he briskly rose, put the plaque behind his counter, and motioned that I should follow him to the front entrance of the booth.
“Glad you like the boots. Come by tomorrow and see me so I can make sure the fit is right after you have worn them a day. You take care now,” he said, with a slight tip of his head towards the man in the back.
I left the booth but heeded Shueller’s words as I made my way back to my booth.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Halt! Where do you think you are going?” the imposing royal guard asked Clare as she approached the Princess’ suite of rooms in the Snoddleton royal manor.
Clare tried to look very calm, as if she approached the Princess’ rooms everyday carrying a covered plate of pastries and had not a care in the world, when inside she was a seething tangle of nerves. How had she let Evan talk her into this?
“I, I, I have a delivery for the Princess from the head royal baker,” Clare stammered. She inwardly kicked herself, hoping the royal guard took her nervousness as natural when questioned by an imposing figure such as himself, since he was now looming over her. Pulling on inner strength she did not even know she possessed, Clare straightened up to her full height of just over five feet and said with more conviction, “The head royal baker asked me to deliver this myself since I won the apprentice pastry division.” Clare pointed to the first place medallion she proudly wore around her neck. “He thought that the Princess might like to know that one of her staff won and have more than a sample, because as you know, the entries are numbered, and since she did not attend the award ceremony, well, she might not have known it was one of her own who won, being as busy as she is, and . . .” Recognizing that she was blathering, Clare trailed off.
Clare realized she had lucked out, for the royal guard standing before her was not one of the royal guards in the special uniforms, but rather one of the regular royal guards. He even looked a bit familiar, and then she realized that he was the royal guard who often could be found outside the royal bakery because he was sweet on one of the journeywomen bakers.
“You’re Hans, aren’t you?” Clare asked, “A friend of Gretchen’s?”
“Yah,” the royal guard answered, his eyes softening.
“Would you like to try one of the pastries I brought?”
Upon that suggestion, Hans seemed to unbend a little more, and when he tried one of the pastries Clare handed him, a look of pure delight came over his face. “If this was your entry into the contest, it’s no wonder you won,” he exclaimed. “I can see no harm in you delivering the pastries to the Princess yourself. Now don’t mention this to anyone, but I think she has just not been herself lately. Maybe a bit of sweet will perk her up. You go right on in.”
With that, Clare walked past the royal guard and hoped he did not notice she took a shuddering breath of relief once past him. Holding the tray of baked goods in one hand, Clare knocked on the door and was admitted into the Princess’ chamber by her maid. Now everything hinged on getting the Princess to eat.
Evan paced back and forth between the displays in the Hall of Masters, unable to contain his nervous energy, and would have continued doing so, if a hand had not reached out to stop his forward progress.
“Give it a rest, lad,” suggested Master Rollag kindly. “Come with me, and let’s put that energy to some good use other than wearing a hole in the floor here.”
Evan followed Master Rollag out of the Hall of Masters and nearly had to run to keep up with the swift pace Master Rollag set. By the time they arrived at the front stoop of the local master glassmaker, Evan was short of breath.
“For the next several hours, we are going to be taking inventory of what is in stock here, which will be useful and will keep your mind off of your worries. Everything is going to be alright lad,” stated Master Rollag with authority.
Evan was not totally convinced. Up until now, being in the know and part of the secret behind the doings had seemed like a grand adventure, but it was not looking so grand at the moment, when he thought about Clare and how he had put her at great risk. No, it did not seem so grand at all. Not a game this, not a pretend that was played by children, but real. Something could happen to Clare, or any one of his friends, because this was not a game, and these were real folks. Much as Evan wanted to wholeheartedly believe that Master Rollag was right, and everything was going to be fine, he was now more worried than ever and would not know if Clare was alright until they met
at noon for lunch. Since there was nothing to be done, Evan followed Master Rollag through the house to the back and to the large storage shed where the glass was kept. Once the door to the shed closed, Master Rollag took Evan’s arm, led him to a bench and told him to sit down.
“I appreciate you are anxious for your friend, but know this my young friend. These are hard times, and folks are going to be asked to make hard choices. There will be high risks connected to some of those choices. Many of you are going to have to grow up a whole lot faster than any of us would wish. The future of Sommerhjem is going to be decided over the next couple of years, and you will need to know where your loyalties and your heart stand. Right now, there is nothing you can do to help Clare and plenty you can do to create problems. Now, put your gloves on and help me move some glass around.”
Clare entered the Princess’ sitting room and almost let out a gasp at the sight of the Princess slumped in a chair, staring out the window. As Clare waited for the Princess’ maid to gain the Princess’ attention, other impressions began to register. Clare had expected the Princess’ chambers to be filled with fine furnishings and grand works of art, as they were back in the capitol. What she saw was a room that was really quite shabby, and not what could be described as a genteel shabbiness either. It was one thing to have worn rugs on the floor if they were grand old hand-woven rugs lovingly cared for, but the rug Clare was standing on the edge of was dusty and moth-eaten, as were the drapes on the windows. This room looked like it had been furnished with overused castoffs, and not good quality ones at that. If the Princess had been herself, she would have thrown a royal fit over the condition of the room.
The young maid had managed to get the Princess’ attention and had indicated that Clare was waiting to speak to her. Princess Esmeralda made an attempt to straighten up and with a limp hand beckoned Clare to come to her. Clare swiftly crossed the room and dropped a quick curtsy, trying not to drop the plate of pastries while doing so.
“Your Highness,” started Clare, only to be interrupted by the Princess.
“I know you, don’t I? You are one of the head royal baker’s . . ., ah, oh, I am so sorry, I just had your name on the tip of my tongue, but I, I . . .” the Princess said, her voice trailing off as she shifted her eyes back to staring out the window.
The maid stood there looking uncertain as to what to do, and then suggested that perhaps Clare should just leave the plate and go. This would not do at all, thought Clare. She said to the maid, “Why don’t you make us some tea? Tea would be good, don’t you think, Your Highness?”
“Tea?” Princess Esmeralda said, bringing her attention back from the view out the window. She seemed to pull herself together with great effort and nodded to her maid that she should make some tea. The maid crossed the room and swung the tea kettle over the fire that was smoldering in the small fireplace. “And you are?” Princess Esmeralda questioned, really looking at Clare for the first time.
“I am Clare, apprentice to the head royal baker, Your Highness. You chose my pastries as the best in the apprentice class, and I want to thank you. I brought some with me, thinking you might like some with your tea.”
“I do not seem to be very hungry these days.”
“I understand. I just remember when you would sneak down to the royal bakery that you liked flaky sweet pastry and thought you might like a taste of home, so to speak,” said Clare, knowing that this was going to be the hardest part of her task, the actual getting the Princess to eat one of the especially prepared pastries.
Clare got surprise reinforcement when the maid, who had appeared afraid of her own shadow, boldly spoke up saying, “A spot of tea and a sweet would be just the thing right now. You hardly ate any breakfast, and you have a long afternoon ahead of you. Here now, have a nice cuppa and a chat with this young woman while I go finish getting your bath ready and your clothes set out.” With that said, the maid abruptly left the room.
“Master Rollag?” asked Evan in a questioning voice.
“Yes, Evan. What is it lad?”
“What if something goes wrong? How will we know? What can we do? Maybe I should walk up into town a ways, and just be near the royal manor, just to watch and wait.”
“I know you are concerned about your friend, Evan, but your loitering near the royal manor when you have no business being there would only raise suspicion. Clare has a legitimate reason for being there, and you certainly do not. We are not without resources you know, and there is someone there watching, if that makes you feel any better. The plan is a good one.”
“But what if the Princess is not a good actor? Won’t they suspect Clare?” Evan asked.
“That was part of the risk that Clare knew when she agreed to her part of the plan, Evan. The hardest part of this day is the knowing. Knowing that someone we care about is placing herself in danger. I know if it were your choice, you would have gone in her stead, but she was the logical one to go. If Nissa is right, and her reference book seems to suggest she is, someone has been giving the Princess a dose of a concoction that will eventually cause the Princess to literally fade away, leaving only a shell with no will of her own. While the concoction is very complex, the antidote is really quite simple and quick. Now all depends on whether Clare can get the Princess to eat one of her pastries . . .”
Master Rollag chose not to finish what he was saying, when the storeroom door swung open and Journeyman Mikkel entered the room, followed by Jonzee Smed.
The maid’s abrupt departure made Clare even more nervous than she already was, and it was difficult to keep her hands steady while she poured the tea. So much was riding on whether their guesses about the Princess’ condition were accurate. Clare had been reassured by the Glassmakers Guild’s head herbalist that if what they suspected were not true, then the antidote would do no harm. She sincerely hoped that was true, for she did not wish to be the cause of harm to the Princess.
Handing the Princess her tea, Clare took the cover off the pastries, and with a set of tongs that she had brought with her, picked up a pastry and set it on a plate the maid had provided when she had brought the tea.
“I know you have a sweet tooth, Your Highness, so I brought a bit extra of the sweet drizzle I use on my pastries,” Clare said, using a small spoon to ladle some icing out of a tiny pot she had brought with her. The antidote was in the drizzle.
Princess Esmeralda accepted the plate with the pastry on it and took a polite bite, showing little interest in either her tea or Clare. Clare held her breath. She really did not know what to expect and was worried that whatever was in her drizzle would either not work or the Princess would have a very negative reaction. Nothing happened, other than the Princess took a second bite, then a third, and finally a fourth, finishing the pastry. Then in a very unladylike way, the Princess licked her fingers. When she looked up, there was a clarity in her eyes that had not been there before.
In a quiet almost desperate whisper, not knowing if the maid was in earshot, Clare said, “Your Highness, we don’t have very much time. Please listen.”
Princess Esmeralda said nothing as she reached for her tea.
“You have not appeared to be yourself during your time here in Snoddleton and many have noticed. We, your loyal subjects, are worried that you are gravely ill, or under the influence of some type of concoction. It would appear that our second guess is correct, for when I first came into this room, you were, well quite frankly, you were not really here. You were slumped in your chair and very vague.”
“More like trapped inside my head, unable to get out. I would think I should do or say something, but my body and mouth would not respond. Who would do this to me, and why?” the Princess asked.
“I don’t know, but I also don’t think the danger has passed. If you suddenly appear alert, we think it will put you in grave danger.” Clare reached into her baker’s coat pocket and pulled out a bag,
pressing it into the Princess’ hand. “There is more antidote within this bag. We don’t know how they are getting you to take the concoction, but we think it is in something you might eat or drink at night. Take this each day, and it should help. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but as I said, should anyone notice a change in you, it could place you in more danger. How good an actress are you?”
Feeling better and more clearheaded than she had in days, the Princess said, “Do you jest? I have had to be great at acting all of my life. Do you know how much effort it takes to look interested and cheerful at an official dinner? Quick, tell me what I have been like since I have been here.”
“You have been described as listless and looking like you are fading away. You have shown little or no spark of life or personality. Physically, you look, ah, again the word faded comes to mind, or washed out. I am told, the antidote will begin to bring color back to your cheeks, and that will be noticeable.”
The Princess leaned back in her chair and was about to take a sip of her tea, when the door to the chamber banged open. A short, round, self-important woman dressed in severe black waddled into the room, followed by one of the special royal guards.
“Who are you, and what do you think you are doing here?” the woman demanded.
Evan glanced again at the sky, trying to gage the time. The noon bells had already rung, as had the half past bells, and still no Clare.
Chapter Forty-Five
I opened my booth early since I had too much nervous energy to sit around the cook fire and trade fair gossip with the Jalcones. I wanted to get all set up for the day because I wanted to visit the shoemaker again. I thought I would go early morning so I could be back at my booth by midmorning. Since Master Clarisse said she would keep an eye on Shyla, I set off across the fairgrounds to seek out the shoemaker. Once again the air smelled almost good enough to eat. The yeasty smells carried on the soft morning breeze were enough to make me feel hungry even though I had had a hearty breakfast. It was a good thing that Snoddleton was the only bakers’ fair. If all of the summer fairs held baking competitions, those of us who traveled from fair to fair each summer would surely be much heavier by summer’s end.