The Tower Princess, page 4
part #1 of Lost Fairy Tales Series
Time to sprint. Manny pulled from his reserves and shot out to overtake Charlemagne and Bruce. He dodged to the right as he went by them. Just as he suspected. Bruce made a move to trip him up and instead went sprawling himself on the ground. Manny grinned at the noise behind him. You never could trust Bruce during a race.
He and Charlemagne huffed side by side, crossing the line together.
“You almost had me that time, tailor-boy!” said Charlemagne, clapping Manny on the back. “I don’t know anyone as stubborn as you.”
“I think you mean determined,” Manny said, breathing hard. They waved and parted company. The squires were expected to serve lunch in the great hall while he was expected back at the shop.
The courtyard in front of the castle keep was quiet at this time of day. The preparations in the great hall kept many folks busy, and the shopkeepers took the time for their own lunches. The baker was standing by the door to the kitchen, supervising a delivery of flour, and a few straggling children were running home for their lunches.
He continued on his way, stepping into a swarm of gnats. He waved them aside, but felt a sting like a needle prick. Ouch. A spot of blood appeared near his thumb. What was that? He sucked on his hand. Must have been a mosquito.
As he turned to go down the street to his shop, he felt a breath of hot air on his neck. His reflexes were still alert from training, and he whipped around, expecting Bruce or Charlemagne to have snuck up on him. There was no one.
He almost missed the shadow slinking near the Dividing Wall. He blinked and it was gone like a will ‘o the wisp floating over the sea at twilight. The little hairs on the back of his neck prickled his skin. He looked around to see if anyone else had seen it.
Over yonder by the kitchen door, the king’s baker shouted at an apprentice who had dropped a sack sending out billows of flour clouds. At the stall closest to the wall, a candle-maker had left his lunch on the table to barter with a sharp-tongued woman. But not a one of them was looking at the wall.
There had been a shadow, hadn’t there? Cautiously, Manny went to investigate.
What he saw made the blood drain from his face. Behind the climbing ivy was a gap in the stones of the Dividing Wall. A definite crack. And it was large enough for a body to squeeze through undetected.
His hand instantly reached for the dagger in his leather boot. Had the Panther finally broken through to spy on them? Or worse, was his army about to attack the people of South Morlaix without warning?
For years Hoxham had been drilling it into anyone who would listen that South Morlaix was doomed. He said it was only a matter of time before the Panther was let loose. From all accounts, both kings were healthy and the treaty intact. But if Hoxham were right, and the Panther was coming for the king’s son, well, the knights of South Morlaix would have to protect the young prince. For surely, Nigel couldn’t defend himself against a goose.
Manny took a deep breath and a quick survey of the land. Here was his chance to prove he was more than a tailor’s son. The knights were in the keep, and only a handful of guards stationed at the sea wall. If he could save the kingdom, his parents would see his life was meant for more than sewing tunics and dresses. Perhaps he could leapfrog his plans and go straight from volunteer squire to rewarded landowner.
He clenched his dagger and inched through the crack, scraping the stones as he squeezed through. He’d find out what was going on and then report to the king. If he was fast and clever, he may even be able to capture the Panther himself.
The air was old and musty, like the air down in his mother’s root cellar. The way was like a tunnel, angled to the right. Three steps in and the passageway went dark. A chill set in as the tall walls blocked the sun. He cocked his head, listening for the scrape of a boot on rock, a suppressed sneeze, or even the creak of leather that would give away an impending attack, but it was as silent as grass growing. Dare he continue and go all the way into North Morlaix? He’d come this far. He would just look around, then scoot back home.
When he emerged from the wall, everything looked startling white as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. He ducked back into the passage, heart pounding. He pressed his back against the wall, praying that no one had seen him. He strained his ears for shouts warning of an intruder or pounding feet coming his way. Again, all was silent. Strange. He expected to at least hear the typical castle sounds: a blacksmith’s hammer, a baby crying, the knights of North Morlaix shouting threats over the wall.
Curious, he leaned his head out a fraction, and found he was not in North Morlaix as he expected. Wide-eyed, he stepped out into an empty, grass-filled open space with a large tree all abloom in white blossoms in the very center with a bubbling stream at its base. Stunned, Manny about dropped his dagger. What was this place?
Surrounded by the wall, the land seemed neither North Morlaix nor South Morlaix. Keeping his back against the Dividing Wall, Manny circled the small expanse, hopping over the brook twice, and came upon no other break in the wall but the one through which he entered. Even the brook rose up out of the wall at one end and dove back under at the other end.
Where was the shadow he had seen? The one that led him here? He peered deep into the branches of the tree, the only hiding place in the meadow. There. A movement.
A rush of starlings flew out of the greenery. With lightening reflexes, Manny dropped his dagger to grab at the bow strapped to his back.
Pausing only a moment to take aim, he shot and landed his supper. Three birds with one arrow. Two for the king’s cook and the third for his mother. As long as he kept the cook in fresh fowl, the man allowed Manny a share in the spoils instead of accusing him of poaching the king’s land.
With another arrow poised, Manny stalked around the tree, looking for the shadow he had seen. He left himself in a vulnerable position, but saw no other way to coax out the enemy. He let fly a number of arrows, none of them hitting a mark. Curious.
His shoulders relaxed as he studied his surroundings. No feat of honor for him today, only the discovery of a secret place.
The sun was no longer straight up in the sky. It was time to go. He gathered up his dagger and prey and returned to his side of the Dividing Wall. Mother would be glad to have meat on the table tonight.
Back in South Morlaix, he rearranged the ivy to cover up the opening and marked the spot with a round rock. He would be back. Whistling, he swung his birds by their legs as he brought them to the castle kitchen. Maybe the cook would reward him for the birds with an extra sweet cake.
CHAPTER 6
T he smoke from the blacksmith’s fires hung low, making the air outside Gressa’s chambers nearly as oppressive as the air inside. But who was she to complain? It was far better to be out of her tower than in it.
Despite Gressa’s misgivings about Old Anne being able to convince both her father and brother to allow her more freedom, the nursemaid had managed to secure permission for a daily short trip to the garden as well as an afternoon turn about the grounds. Dear Old Anne.
The herbs had taken to their new home and were stretching their leaves to the sun, drinking in the rain. The pleasure Gressa gained from watching them thrive surprised her. It was a small victory for her, but meaningful, because for the first time she felt like she might have a purpose in the kingdom.
The townspeople were not used to seeing the Tower Princess and so, surprised, they curtsied and bowed at her as she walked by. A little boy, nudged by his mother, stumbled forward and handed her a sweet cake.
She bent down and tweaked his nose. “Why, thank you, sir. I can tell this will be the best sweet cake I’ve ever tasted,” she said.
The boy turned red and hid behind his mother’s skirts. The mother beamed. Gressa was about to speak to her when a disturbance in the marketplace caused everyone to stop and look for the source.
It was Gressa’s eldest brother, Herrick, riding his tall war horse through the busy lane, followed by his two most loyal knights. The townsfolk leapt out of his path and crowded up against the stalls to get out of his way. He took nary a glance to the left nor right, not even acknowledging the people. After the horse stepped on an old man’s toe, Herrick proceeded to brush past a table laden with pippins, sending an avalanche of apples to the ground.
Gressa watched, agape. If he were purposely trying to rattle the shop keepers, he could not have done a better job. But he didn’t even seem to notice. His nose was upturned too high to see anything.
As he left the crafts area, his foot sticking out from the stirrup grazed a pole holding up a display of crockery. The old woman tending the stall leaned forward, overreaching as she tried to right the collection of pots. She stumbled and fell in the dirt with a cry of pain.
The young man in the next stall raised a hand as if about to go to her aid, but with his gaze back on Herrick, he remained in his stall. It looked like no one would go to the woman’s aid until Herrick was out of sight.
With a grim look at her brother, Gressa rushed forward and knelt down in the dust beside her. “Are you all right, mistress? May I help you stand?”
“My wrist.” She cradled her right hand against her stomach. It was already beginning to swell and turn a mixture of red and purple.
“Oh, dear. You may have sprained it. I certainly hope it isn’t broken or you won’t be able to make such fine crocks.” Gressa looked pleadingly at Old Anne. “Might I purchase some of these for my dowry chest?”
She did not have free access to her own money, though she did have a beaded purse in the shape of a frog, empty but for a handkerchief and some rocks which, to make a point, she carried with her. Her father didn’t think women-folk needed any money. Then, for Anne’s ears only, she whispered, “Enough so she may eat whilst her wrist heals.”
Old Anne nodded. “I will put in your request.”
“You should see the healer, mistress. Do not delay.” Gressa lifted the golden pomander from around her neck and looked for an herb to give the potter woman.
The woman shook her head. “I have a small bit of a rowan lotion. It will be enough.”
Gressa’s eyes widened, but she held her voice in check. “Very good, then. I hope to see you at your stall the next time I pass this way.”
“Thank you, princess.” The woman bowed her head until Gressa had walked on.
“Rowan lotion!” exclaimed Gressa once they were out of earshot. “Not even mother has rowan lotion.”
“Yes, your mother used her supply liberally. No one expected all the rowan trees to die and especially so quickly after the wall went up.”
Gressa felt a slight tickle on her neck, followed by a sharp pain. Ouch. She slapped at the spot.
“What is it?” asked Old Anne.
“I think I got bitten,” said Gressa. “Is there a mark?” She held her hair back.
“Only a red mark where you hit. Oh, wait. I see a little pin prick of red. Black fly, maybe?”
Old Anne continued their leisurely pace close to the Dividing Wall, but Gressa, her mind filled with thoughts of rowan lotion, fell behind. If her father would allow her to work with the town healer, she might be of help to the kingdom. She could learn to use her herbs to make healing balms. With a brother such as Herrick, there was good need for healing.
Old Anne’s shadow fell across the ivy growing up the Dividing Wall and Gressa realized how far behind she’d fallen. “Wait for me,” she called and ran to catch up. It looked like Old Anne had tucked herself in a clump of the ivy. How unlike the nursemaid to show a playful side.
With quiet footsteps, Gressa sneaked forward and lunged at the shadow, hoping to give Old Anne a fright. The Dividing Wall fell way and Gressa tumbled forward, landing in a mound of soft green grass. She looked behind and the Dividing Wall was sealed as if there had never been an opening at all. The castle, the villagers, Old Anne, all gone, swallowed up behind an impenetrable brick wall. She held her breath. She was in South Morlaix!
She couldn’t look. She jumped to her feet and pounded the place in the wall where she could have sworn she fell through. Her heart stopped as she pushed at the bricks. Solid. Unmovable.
“Old Anne?” she whispered. “Old Anne?” Her voice caught in a sob. She pounded at the immovable rocks. She had to return to her side of the wall before she was seen by the South Morlaixans. Who knew what they would do to her?
Crossing the wall could be seen as a breaking of the treaty. She could plunge both kingdoms immediately into war. Herrick would be thrilled. Her father would never forgive her.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “Old Anne!” Her cries stopped at the wall. She clawed and scraped at the rock until her fingernails came away chipped and broken.
Slowly, gently, a single starling song filtered its way into her thinking, coaxing her to turn away from the wall. As she followed the sound, her gaze led across a meadow to the base of a wide tree that was more flower than tree, with all its white blooms bursting forth. Next to the tree flowed a trickling brook with water clear to the bottom and a bed lined with rounded stones. There were no people anywhere.
What was this place? Surely not South Morlaix. She knew from using her spy glasses that they had no stretch of open grass like this within the castle grounds.
Yet not North Morlaix either. They were bursting from edge to edge with buildings and townsfolk. There was no open space like this until you got well past the village. A secret meadow?
She threw her arms back, lifted her face to the blue sky and spun and spun until she fell, dizzy to the ground. She stared up at the blue sky. What was this place? It was the perfect hideaway for a princess. That is, if she could find a way in and out.
She jumped to her feet, reminded that she had to find the opening. To be trapped here would be worse than in her tower. At least in her tower she had regular meals and Old Anne to keep her company. Old Anne! Old Anne would be frantic by now.
Gressa had to find her own way out if she were to keep this meadow a secret. Her own secret meadow, imagine that?
She ran back to where she had fallen in and began to search for an opening. This wall was filled with secrets. She glanced back into the meadow, wondering if the king of the woodlings had heard her wish for freedom and granted this to her. “Thank you,” she called out, in case he was listening.
When she turned around, she noticed a narrow passage in the wall. “Where did you come from?” she whispered. As she slipped back through the wall, she tapped it twice, her promise that she would return soon.
Then she was back in the crowded marketplace, the noise of the people a welcome sound in her ears. Now, to find Old Anne.
Not two steps later, Herrick caught her arm in a tight grip. Heart racing, she lifted her gaze to him. His eyes bore into her in that cold, hard way of his, making her shiver despite the warmth the sun had baked into her arms.
“Where have you been? Your nursemaid has been looking all over for you.” His voice was a low growl. “I knew this was a bad idea. Get back to your tower.” He flung her arm forward toward the castle. “Reduced to looking for sniveling brats,” he complained, striding away like a sea storm retreating back into the ocean.
Gressa shivered. Herrick was exactly the reason she needed a place between the walls.
She was still fuming when she entered her chambers. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically, but not sincerely.
Old Anne stood at the window with a thoughtful expression, looking toward South Morlaix. She didn’t look angry or worried.
“Herrick said you were looking for me?” Gressa asked, as if being off on her own were a usual occurrence.
Old Anne turned from the light. “Yes, we best get more work done on our embroidery.” Her mouth formed a tilted smile. “Since we were interrupted earlier in the day.”
She adjusted the two seats by the window to best catch the afternoon sun.
Gressa, still buoyed by her time in the meadow, bounced into her chair. “Have you had a nice afternoon?” Gressa tested the nursemaid, wanting to see how long Old Anne could resist asking where she had been and what she had been doing.
“Yes, mistress. I had an interesting turn about the castle grounds. Through the gardens, past the merchants and ending at the baker’s door for a bun.” She picked up her needlework and began her tiny stitches. “Walked it twice, in case I missed something.” She glanced up.
“Sounds lovely.” Gressa scooped up her hoop and needle. Her stomach growled. She regretted missing the stop at the baker’s.
Ingrid flung open the door. “There you are, child.” She stormed into the room, her presence filling the space. “Where were you? Herrick saw Old Anne walking by herself this afternoon. Alone! We had the entire village looking for you. It was like you disappeared into the walls.”
Gressa kept her face as stoic as her brother Siguard the friar did when reading the Old Testament. Her mother had no idea how close she had come to guessing the truth. She straightened her spine in an effort to appear indignant. After all, her brothers were given way more freedom than she was.
“Old Anne’s walk was like a footrace this afternoon. Don’t know what her hurry was. I wanted to take my time and enjoy the fresh air since my chambers are stale with all of us breathing the same air over and over and over. As you can see, I’m right here.” She spread her hands to emphasize her point. “I didn’t disappear anywhere. And no harm came to me. I wish you all wouldn’t hover so. You never do over the boys.”
Gressa made the mistake of looking at Old Anne. Her look read: Walking too fast, indeed! Gressa’s face flamed to be caught in a lie.
Ingrid shook her head. “Gressa, Gressa, Gressa. The boys are different. They’re trained in combat. You…you…well, we tried.”
Gressa felt a surge of anger and her eyes flashed. She remembered the humiliating combat sessions. Her brothers were merciless before Ingrid gave up and let Old Anne begin teaching her more princess-like ways. Gressa reached into her tall leather boot and wrapped her hand around her dagger. With a shot as fast and clean as a hummingbird’s flight, she flung the blade inches past her mother’s head and into the bedpost behind her. “I can take care of myself.”
